The Red Games
by SaoFireAngel
Summary: After the rebellion against the Mad King failed, the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros were split down into twelve Districts, and the Red Games began. For most, being reaped for the Games is a death sentence. But Arya Stark has always been a survivor.
1. Prologue

_**(Edit) Author's Note: Hey, I just wanted to add a note to say that this doesn't quite follow the story of The Hunger Games, so there's no volunteering and no love story (please don't get the wrong idea at the reaping scene... please. XD). Also, I decided maybe I should add a warning of character deaths, and I did take a few liberties with character ages so I could get as many characters in as possible.**_

 _ **Thanks to Borg Colective for pointing out that the Prologue needed some work. Hope it's explained better now. :)**_

 _ **Prologue - The Past**_ _(Arya)_

Nineteen years ago, the people of Westeros staged a rebellion against King Aerys II Targaryen, called the Mad King. They failed. Their leader, Robert Baratheon, was killed by Aerys' son, Rhaegar, in a battle on the great river known as the Trident. The Lannister horde broke themselves on the walls of King's Landing and their leader, Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, was executed. My father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, was among the lords who were spared because they surrendered, as was Tywin's heir, Jaime Lannister, a knight of the Kingsguard at the time, stripped of that honour because of his father's treason. They and others were allowed to return to their homes and retain the title 'lord', but it is a mockery. The next blow fell on all of Westeros, whether they had rebelled or not, and it was the heaviest of the Mad King's reign. Even his allies suffered for his fury, but it was too late to turn on him then.

To punish the rebels Aerys split what had been the Seven Kingdoms into twelve Districts. Some of the borders remained more-or-less the same, and so The Vale, The Stormlands and The Iron Islands retained their old names. The rest of the borders shifted randomly, changing according Aerys' random whims, and they were named after a major town, city or holdfast within their borders. My District is Winterfell, and it stretches across the Wolfswood to Deepwood Mott and down past Torrhen's Square. There's no-one out on Bear Island anymore. They live in Deepwood Mott. The only other District north of the Neck is Whiteharbour, which covers Moat Cailin, too.

The District of Seagard covers The Twins and Greywater Watch. The District of Riverrun covers most, but not all, of what used to be the Riverlands. The Crownlands shrank, and became known as Casterly Rock because that was the ancient Lannister seat, and Jaime Lannister became the so-called 'lord' of the District. Likewise, the borders of the Reach were compressed, and the District was called Highgarden. Horn Hill is part of that District. Aerys turned the peninsula just south of Shipbreaker Bay into a a District called Cape Wrath - the only change he made to The Stormlands. Dorne broke down into the District of Starfall, which covers Blackmont and Sandstone, and the District of Sunspear, which covers most of the southern peninsula. No-one really knows what Aerys was thinking when he split the Districts like that, or why he bothered at all. Then again, no-one really knows what goes on in his mind most of the time. I suspect that he just wanted to divide us more.

After that, it was decreed that each year, each of these Districts would offer up a tribute of one young man and one young woman between the ages of twelve and eighteen, to be trained in combat and to fight to the death. Each year there's a different arena, and each year there's only one victor. Only one comes out alive. These massacres are known as the Red Games.

Between the Districts there is only wilderness, the empty woods and wastes. North of Winterfell, there's wilderness as far as the Wall, and even there not a soul lives. Aerys emptied Queenscrown, the Last Hearth and Karhold. Then he deposed the Night's Watch, returning the black brothers to the Districts to help with the jobs that we carry out. Some Districts have specific tasks - Casterly Rock mines gold for King's Landing, Highgarden grows fruit for them in their legendary orchards, Starfall on the summer sea is in charge of trade with merchants from other lands, and in The Vale they mine stone - but most just carry out all the typical labour like smithing, farming, hunting. Most of our produce goes to King's Landing.

According to the tales there's only one free House: House Bolton. The Dreadfort lies north of even Winterfell, and it's said that the Boltons have escaped the Games, though how, no-one knows. There are whispers of terrible things being done by the Boltons, flaying and cannibalism and such. I don't know if those rumours are true. It doesn't matter really.

I was born six years after the rebellion, in Winterfell. We're not the poorest, but we're not far off. I was four when Aerys changed things. He extended the age range, so it included eleven- and nineteen-year-olds. Then he kicked all the poor of King's Landing, who had been safe from the Games, out of the city to scatter among the Districts. I remember the day they came, the ones sent to Winterfell. A host of ragged refugees who had been driven up the Kingsroad on foot, day and night. They were a hopeless looking bunch, most of them already at the point of giving up, even the adults in the prime of life - except one, a boy the same age as my eldest brother Robb and my bastard brother Jon Snow. He stood out in the crowd even at only nine, taller than others his age, strong, and with sullen, defiant blue eyes. I remember noticing him, but I had no idea at the time that our lives would end up so entwined.

Aerys brought a new plague down on Westeros that year, too. Before that, it was only soldiers who kept us in the Districts. Another few years and we might have been strong enough to rebel. The Mad King got himself a pet from Asshai, a shadowbinder they call the Red Woman. She fashioned domes of red energy that hang over us, each enclosing a whole District. I don't know what would happen if we stepped into that swirling red light. I've never tried, and I don't want to. She's also the one who pens in the arena, and who broadcasts the Games to the Districts. Via her 'viewers' we are watched all the time, and when the Games play out we must watch our people die. During the Games, she can kill a tribute on a whim if Aerys is displeased. She can burn them to ash in seconds. If I had the kind of power that Melisandre does I'd overthrow the damn Targaryens and free Westeros. She helps them create their Games. There are no words for how much I hate her.

The Red Games rip families apart. I've watched members of the same family thrown in there together, brothers and sisters, even a newly-wed couple once. He was nineteen, she eighteen. Most people don't get married until they're too old for the Games, but they'd survived so many Reapings I guess they thought they were safe. They were from Starfall, if I remember rightly. Anyway, they knew they couldn't both win, so they killed themselves, died together in the centre of the bloodbath. There were two friends another year, from Cape Wrath, or Sunspear, possibly, I'm not sure now. Anyway, they thought they could get the crowd on side and both win. They faked this whole romance thing - I was only nine at the time, I didn't notice if it was faked, but Sansa was eleven, and she swore that the boy might be genuine, but the girl was pretending. At the end of the Games they were the last two, and they had some poisonous berries. They decided they were going to die together, and I remember the look in their eyes when they swallowed the berries. They thought Aerys needed a victor, that was their mistake. They thought he'd save them both so he'd have at least one. They were wrong. I think their names were Katniss and Peeta, or something like that, I really don't remember for sure.

The fact is, Aerys doesn't care about a victor. Some people say the royals engineer who wins, but I doubt it. Aerys II Targaryen, the Mad King, only cares about one thing: reminding the Districts of Westeros that he is the king, and we are powerless.


	2. Chapter 1

_**Part 1: Winterfell – The Reaping**_ _(Arya)_

It's dark when I wake. My room is silent and cold, but Nymeria's fur keeps me warm. Robb and Jon found the wolf pups in the snow a few years ago. They're already huge. We have to keep them a careful secret from the Targaryen soldiers. They would almost certainly kill them.

I wonder why I'm so restless. I feel afraid, here in the dark, but that's madness. I'm a hunter, darkness is my friend. And then I remember. It's Reaping day.

I'll never sleep now that I've remembered that, so I slip out of bed and dress silently in the dark, dragging my long brown hair into a braid. Nymeria watches and jumps off the bed when I approach the door and grab my bow and knife. She stands as tall as my shoulder, but she moves without a sound. We slip outside together.

The great keep that is my home is silent and cold, like my room. Even through my boots the chill rises from the stone floor. At this hour of the morning, with dawn not yet broken, even the hot springs do no good. Still, I need to be outside, in the fresh air, in the Wolfswood, where I hunt illegally every day. I'm lucky to live in the keep, to be the 'lord's' daughter, to have a proper roof and enough to eat, but the Wolfswood is the only place I feel free.

Outside the walls of the keep, I pass through the shantytown we call the Refuge, a tumble of rundown huts. It's quiet still. Most people who can't sleep will stay in bed. The curfew runs until sunrise, and it's a flogging if you're caught by the guards, but for me it's no great feat to skirt the few soldiers on patrol. They're from King's Landing, where life is soft and warm. I can hear several complaining about the cold.

Passing one of the huts I'm tempted to look in the small hole that passes for a window, but I don't. If he's awake he'll be in the woods and I'll find him. If he's not, I won't drag him out of bed to come.

Once I'm beyond the Refuge it's a quick sprint across open ground to the trees. In the dark that's no real danger. If I was fair-haired, I guess it would be, or if I was auburn like Sansa, but I'm not, I'm dark-haired, a true North-child, a true Stark. All I have to do is stay low to avoid the Red Woman's viewers. I make the trees with Nymeria at my heels. Ghost would never be able to do that, nor Lady, but Nymeria's fur is a bit darker than theirs.

I slow among the trees, calmer already. I won't bother to hunt today. I wouldn't be able to get it to the families without getting caught. I'll hunt again tomorrow, as I have for three years. People used to starve in Winterfell, but they don't anymore, thanks to us.

Dawn is beginning to touch the eastern sky as I walk the forbidden paths of the Wolfswood. There's a clearing and a small, hidden lake surrounded by low stone cliffs only a ten minute walk in. I can see a silhouette sitting by the water and I smile. I should never have doubted that Gendry would be out here this morning too. He looks up as Nymeria trots to his side and licks his arm, and he gives me that quick, honest smile I've come to know so well.

Gendry was that boy who stood out in the crowd of refugees. He was already an orphan and alone then, coming from Fleabottom in King's Landing. He was used to a tough life, and I understood later that what I saw in his eyes wasn't just defiance. He was a survivor, like me. I didn't meet him for another six years though.

I was ten. I remember a funeral the day before, a little boy from the Refuge who'd starved to death. He was only three, a year younger than Rickon, and as I watched them bury him I decided I was sick of my people dying around me. The woods were forbidden to all but the hunters - who had to send all they caught to King's Landing - and most of the District were too frightened to defy the law. But I was angry, young, and perhaps a little foolhardy. The day after the funeral I went out into the woods alone for the first time. I had a small bow, a handful of arrows, a few knives, and no idea what I was doing. Only instinct. I was utterly alone, Nymeria not yet trained enough to bring out with me. I jumped at every little sound, and I don't know how I managed to nail the rabbit I caught that morning.

When a voice spoke behind me I jumped like a scalded cat. "What're you doing out here?"

I was sure I was caught, but the boy behind me was no older than Robb and Jon. I recognised him; those blue eyes never changed, except to grow more defiant. He became Mikken's apprentice not long after that - still is now - but at that time he wasn't. Beyond that he lived in the Refuge, I knew nothing about him. Even then, when he was only fifteen, he was tall and muscled, with shaggy black hair falling into his eyes. There was no warmth in those blue eyes that day.

"I… uh…" I might not have been caught by a guard, but I was still frightened. I saw that he had a bow and a sack, and the makings of traps. "The same as you."

"Why?" he challenged, angry. Like me, he had a lot of anger in those days, more, maybe. "You're highborn, the lord's daughter. You get enough to eat from the Targaryens. Leave this for the rest of us!"

"It's not for my family." I told him. "It's for the others - the ones in the Refuge. The ones who have nothing. The ones too scared to come out here. That little boy yesterday was younger than my youngest brother. They have other children. I am the lord's daughter, and that means I should protect my people. What I catch today goes to that family. What I catch tomorrow goes to others."

His face softened while I spoke. I wasn't sure he'd believe me, but he did. "Sorry. You're Arya, right? My name's Gendry." He paused and then added, "Two can catch and carry more than one."

I almost smiled then, and I'm not sure that I ever had before. "You'll help me? Between us, we… we could save lives! We could be heroes!"

That was the first time I saw him smile, and I knew we'd be friends then. "What an odd pair of heroes." he commented. "A bastard from Fleabottom, and the most unladylike lady I've ever met."

I laughed then, probably for the first time since I was a baby too young to understand the world. "I'm not _really_ a lady."

Our friendship started that day. Since then we've hunted together every day, giving everything we catch to the poor. I don't need it; the lords' families get plenty of food. Gendry doesn't need it either, anymore; here, wages are paid in food, so since he became Mikken's apprentice, he gets enough to eat too. Three years on, I sometimes feel closer to Gendry than I do to my own family.

Now he greets me with a warm smile. He's fashioning makeshift arrows, to keep himself busy while he waited, I guess. A couple of traps lie on the ground near him too, and I wonder how long he's actually been out here, working by moonlight.

I grin at him and steal one of the arrows, fit it to my bow and fire it across the small lake. Even in the dark it hits near the centre of the target we hung out there a year ago. Laughing triumphantly, I bow, and Gendry laughs too, applauding quietly. He holds up a loaf of bread so fresh the smell makes my mouth water.

"Happy Red Games."

We finish the quote in unison, the way Jon and I often do. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour! For the night is dark, and _full_ of terrors!" The Games are horrific, but you have to laugh or you'll go mad.

I settle down beside him, cross-legged on the ground by the water, as he breaks the bread and hands half to me. He opens a small pouch full of berries as I rip into the bread with my teeth, feeling it warm my mouth.

"I didn't think to bring anything." I apologise after a mouthful. "How'd you get _fresh-baked_?"

"Baker gave it to me for a rabbit." he replies. Trade and barter are far more common now than gold or silver.

"One rabbit? He's usually so tight."

Gendry shrugs and says, with no humour or warmth in his voice, "Well, I guess we're all feeling a little sentimental today."

I just grunt in agreement and pop a berry in my mouth. It's sharp and sweet, the kind you only find in the North, and when the skin breaks the juice fills my mouth in a burst. We enjoy our meal mostly in silence, only making passing conversation. When we hunt we are constantly silent, and even when we don't we usually have no need to talk. Companionable silence is enough.

When we've finished Gendry lies back against the trunk of a tree, with Nymeria's head in his lap, and I lean against it and him, my head on his shoulder. It's so easy with him, like he was one of my brothers. To be honest, even they don't know me as well as he does. The changing colours of sunrise darken our thoughts.

"How many times is your name in the bowl now?" I ask quietly.

"Let's see…" He does some quick sums in his head, a slightly pained look on his face. He always gets that look when he thinks too hard, especially about numbers. It's kind of cute. "Thirty-six." he states at last. Thirty-six entries. An equal number for each year in the draw, each age, one for eleven, two for twelve, three for thirteen and so on, all piling up year after year. "You?"

"Um… one for eleven, plus two for twelve, plus three for thirteen… six times."

"Out of hundreds, thousands." he reminds me. "It won't be either of us, Arry." He took up the nickname for me a year or so back. Somehow, it always makes me smile.

I feel a chill, though, at the thought that his name is in there six times the amount mine is. Robb and Jon are both in there thirty-six times too, and Sansa's in fifteen times. Fifteen entries for age fifteen. It feels like fate, a bad sign, but it's the same for every fifteen-year-old. It was the same when Robb, Jon and Genrdy were fifteen, but they're still here, thank the gods. Bran will be waking up scared now. He's eleven. It's his first year in the draw. At least his name's only in there once.

Gendry responds to my silence with a gentle elbow in my side. "Don't tell me Arya Stark's afraid!"

"Of course I'm not!" I retort hotly, elbowing him back. "Are you?"

"No!"

We're both terrified, any sane person would be. I don't mind that Gendry knows I'm afraid and I doubt he cares much that I know that he is, not anymore, but the bravado and the teasing make us both feel better.

In the distance we hear thundering hoof beats and the low rumble of a carriage. We sit bolt upright. That sound has become the sound of death and doom in Winterfell. We're not rich enough to own good horses or fancy carriages. That can only mean one thing.

"Here they come, I have to get back!" I scramble upright, brushing leaves from my clothes.

"I'll meet you at the Reaping." Gendry calls softly as Nymeria and I run for the keep.

Gendry can slip back to the Refuge while the guards are distracted greeting the carriage, but I have to be there with my family to greet them. Sound carries in the crisp air here, so they're still miles away when I sneak back to my room. My mother has already laid out a soft green woollen dress for me. She was probably awake before I was, pacing the halls or the kitchen, worrying for her children. This year will be seven kinds of hell for her and Father. All but one of their children will be in the Reaping.

Normally I don't wear dresses. I hate them, and besides, you can't hunt in a dress. But this is Reaping Day. Everyone has to dress up, so I slip into the dress and start to wrestle with the tangles in my hair, staring at myself in the mirror.

Mother told me once that in the days before the Red Games all women and girls wore dresses, or at least most. None were technically allowed to hunt or fight, particularly highborn ladies. Women stayed in the home and sewed and managed the household. Women were used to make marriages with great Houses to boost their own House's status. That wouldn't work now. You can't marry outside your own District, and anyway, there are no great Houses apart from House Targaryen, since the 'lordsl who head the Districts are only barely better off than our people.

I wonder who I would've been in a world like that. I guess I'd still be me, the one who broke the rules, who went her own way. My parents would despair of me. I don't think I could have been the good little girl, forced to leave all the important stuff to the men. Even if I was raised in a world like that, I think I'd still be the lawbreaker, the fighter, the hunter. I wonder if I'd have ever met Gendry.

No-one knows what made Aerys include girls in his Games after years of women being considered the weaker sex. Maybe he thought we'd all be killed, but there was a female victor within a few years, a girl from the Iron Islands. Maybe it was part of Aerys' madness, or maybe in that he was actually sane. Maybe he was just thinking of his ancestors, Rhaenys and Visenya, who rode to war on dragon-back alongside their brother, Aegon.

When I've managed to brush all the tangles from my hair I slip my feet into the boots by my bed and head out of my room again, locking Nymeria inside this time. I join my family at the gates of the keep. My father is wearing his finest as lord of Winterfell, but his face is grim. It's his job to read out the history and the Treaty that he and the other lords were forced to sign. It's his job to tell the two tributes to shake hands. It gets harder for him every year, essentially being the one to send two kids to their deaths.

My mother looks beautiful in a pale grey dress, but her face is hard and drawn. Sansa's in blue, her red hair styled. She's trying to keep her face expressionless but her lip trembles on occasion. Robb and Jon are both wearing dark brown, standing shoulder to shoulder with matching glares. Bran and Rickon are in grey, like Mother, and they both look openly frightened.

The riders enter first, Targaryen soldiers dressed in shimmering armour like dragon scales, all garbed in the red and black of House Targaryen. The carriage comes in among the last of them - the gate had to be widened years ago to let it through. It's a bright, golden, bejewelled thing, decorated with rubies and chunks of dragonglass, an eyesore here in the harsh North. That carriage would buy food for the whole District for weeks, months. The only gold here is what's sent up from Casterly Rock and used to plate the armour that is sent to King's Landing.

The carriage stops, and a soldier opens the door. Cersei Lannister, escort for half the Districts, steps out. She's a very beautiful woman, with long golden hair and green eyes. She came from Casterly Rock once, before a Targaryen soldier noticed her and decided he wanted her. She had managed to evade the Games, and had three children with her twin brother, Jaime, who was lord of Casterly Rock, but that didn't matter. A Targaryen soldier wanted her, and he was high-ranking so Aerys gave the order and he got her. The soldier spotted her after her younger brother, Tyrion Lannister, won the Games. People still talk about him. He's a dwarf, legs stunted, back twisted, head too big. No-one believed he could win. Everyone said he'd be first to die. Instead, he outsmarted them all and returned home a victor. That was about five years ago. I think the world will always remember him.

Father gives the customary greeting, but like every year I'm in too much of a daze to hear the words. There's the traditional offer of meat and mead, but they won't accept it. They'll take the tributes and be on their way. When Father finishes, the soldiers hustle us off to the northern courtyard, built specially for this. Everything has already been laid out: the stage where Cersei and my father and the previous victors will stand, the rope that will cut off the potential tributes from our families, the little circle of red light that is the Red Woman's viewer – that's how the crowd in King's Landing will watch us. A bored Targaryen soldier takes my name and waves me through. We're not divided by age or gender, so I head straight for Gendry. Robb and Jon follow, and Sansa and Bran soon join us. Mother and Rickon stand near the stage, on the safe side of the ropes. I stand between Jon and Gendry, feeling truly tiny here but also almost safe.

Slowly the courtyard fills up, and then the only three surviving Winterfell victors come onto the stage. There have been four, since the Games began, but one died three years ago. Two of the survivors, a tiny woman called Mia Snow who once came from Deepwood Motte and Harwin, a burly man of Winterfell, have let themselves go. You can't get fat on the meagre food here, but their muscles have sagged and they look pale and weak. Harwin looks drunk; he always does. Mia just stares.

The third victor is Jory Cassel, and he's still a magnificent specimen, muscled arms from working alongside Mikken the blacksmith, thick, lustrous black hair. He's no looker, but compared to the other two he's a god.

Father mounts the stage next, followed by Cersei. She's changed from her plain travelling clothes into a violet-coloured silk dress. She looks beautiful but her face isn't happy. She was forced into this job after she became the soldier's wife.

"Welcome, welcome." she begins in a tight little voice, forcing a cheerfulness she doesn't feel and so sounding strained. "The time has come to select one courageous young man and woman for the honour of representing Winterfell in the annual Red Games."

A bowl is carried onto the stage.

"It's your first year." I hear Sansa whispering to Bran. "You're name's only been in there once, they're not gonna pick you."

"They're not gonna pick any of us." Robb vows, and his eyes flicker across us all, Sansa, Bran, me, Jon, Gendry.

"Ladies first." Cersei announces, dipping her hand into the bowl. "And may the odds be ever in your favour."

I wish, for Bran's sake, that she'd get it over with and do the boys first. As she rummages around in the bowl I'm praying that it's not me; that it's not Sansa, who would never survive; that it's not Jeyne Poole, Sansa's best friend, even though I don't like her; that it's not little Beth Cassel, Jory's sister - she's of an age with Bran, in the Reaping for the first time, and that family have gone through enough. I can see Beth standing on the edge, as close to her father as she can get, and her cheeks are wet with tears.

Cersei finally draws a slip of paper, unfolds it and peers at it. Her voice rings out across the courtyard, loud and clear. And it's not Sansa Stark. And it's not Jeyne Poole. And it's not little Beth Cassel.

"Arya Stark."


	3. Chapter 2

_**Part 2: Winterfell – The Pin**_ _(Arya)_

I'm frozen. I can't register it, can't understand. Me? She means me? I know heads are turning, soldiers are looking for me, I have to move but I can't.

I feel Jon and Gendry start to close their fingers around my arms and that's what gets me moving. If the guards think they're holding me back they'll be beaten, maybe even killed for defiance. I slip away before they can catch me, stepping out of their reach, and that first step gets me moving. I walk towards the stage with my head held high. I won't show fear. When we get to King's Landing and meet the other tributes, all our Reapings will be replayed. I can't show any weakness.

I can barely look at my father as I climb onto the stage and stand beside Cersei, but I also can't help a quick glance. I want to hide in his arms, but I know he can't protect me now. His eyes are more anguished than I've ever seen them. This year, his words will send his own daughter to the Red Games. I turn to face the crowd and I'm trying hard not to look at my mother and youngest brother, who both seem to have shrunk suddenly and are sobbing, or my other siblings who are staring in shock, or my best friend who looks torn between horror and anger.

The second bowl is brought to Cersei. "Now for the boys."

I pray it's none of my brothers or Gendry. I couldn't bear to have to face them. I'd sooner just die in the bloodbath at the start of the Games, though I'm not sure I could give in that easily in any circumstances.

Cersei draws the second name. "Theon Greyjoy."

Oh, no. Not him. Theon Greyjoy is my father's ward, sent here from the Iron Islands when he was eight on one of Aerys' whims. I've never liked Theon, who is eighteen now and a cocky, arrogant ass. With anyone else I might at least hope for a little mercy, a quick death. Most wouldn't even kill someone from their own District, but if they had no choice they'd at least be kind. With him, who knows? There's something sadistic in his smiles at times. Right now, the idiot actually looks proud as he climbs the stage.

"Does anyone wish to volunteer for either of the tributes?" Cersei asks, but this is only a formality. No-one ever does.

I see a look pass between Jon and Gendry and realise, with a jolt of horror, that they both plan to volunteer in Theon's place, to try to protect me. I can't let them. They're already stepping forward but I manage to catch their eyes and shake my head at them, so fiercely that they hesitate and miss their chance.

"Very well. Lord Eddard Stark will now read out the Treaty of the Red Games." Cersei steps back and Father takes her place between me and Greyjoy.

Father's hands and voice shake as he reads the Treaty, and when he finishes Theon and I turn to him. "Theon Greyjoy. A-Arya Stark. Please grasp each other's hands in a symbol of fellowship and honour."

We each reach out our right hand and Theon makes a show of reaching down to me. He's such an ass. He doesn't get the laughter he wants but he still smirks at me. I reply with my best glare. Someone might kill me in there, but it sure as seven hells won't be him.

With this formality over we're swept off to the small rooms in the ancient guardhouse where we'll say our goodbyes. My parents come in first, with Bran and Sansa and baby Rickon. They all converge on me and wrap me in a huge hug, holding me so tightly that I can barely breathe and yet it's not tight enough. Mother's still crying.

"My baby girl." she whispers. "These Games are no place for a Stark."

"Your mother's right." Father agrees. "Starks value honour, but there's no honour in the Red Games. Arya, listen to me. If you are to have any chance of coming home you must put aside all thought of honour." He touches my hair. "You're the one, of all of us, who had the strength to defy Aerys' law, to become what you had to, to survive. You're the one who might be able to win this." I nod, though I don't agree.

Bran says nothing, just holds onto me. Rickon, only seven and only barely beginning to understand, nestles into my lap and says, "Come home, Arya. Please."

I kiss his hair and say nothing. What can I say? I have no chance of winning, but how can I tell my seven-year-old brother that? All I can do is try my best for him, for all of them.

The soldiers call them away. As Rickon climbs out of my lap I whisper in Bran's ear. "You wanted to come hunting with me and Gendry. You wanted to learn. I need you to do that for me now. He can't get enough on his own. I need you to be brave for me, Bran, and take my place, ok?"

My little brother looks into my eyes solemnly. I can see the part of him that wants to argue, to say that I'll come home, but he doesn't say it. He holds my gaze with eyes more mature than he is, then nods seriously. He still doesn't say a word, but his eyes give me the promise I need.

Sansa doesn't speak until the end. As they're leaving she simply says, "You can win this, Arya. You're strong." Then she's gone and I'm left wondering if Sansa cares about me more than I thought.

Robb and Jon come in next. Jon has me in a tight hug straight away and Robb joins him a moment later.

"I should've volunteered for Theon." Robb mutters. "I could've protected you."

"No." I disagree. "You need to stay here, _both_ of you. Our family needs you."

"Not me." Jon argues, ignoring the hard look I'm giving him. "Lady Stark would be happier if I was gone."

"I don't care!" I growl, tears in my eyes. "Bran and Rickon love you, and they can't lose two of us! If two of us went, neither would come back. Better it's only one of us. Listen, both of you. Gendry's not going to be able to feed the whole District on his own. Jon, do whatever you can to help him. You'll be more help to the whole District here, helping him hunt, than getting yourself killed with me. Robb, look out for them, for everyone. You'll be lord of Winterfell one day. They need you."

They promise, both of them crying though they're nearly men grown. Then they just hold me until it's time to go, one on either side and me tucked in the middle. All three of us are trying to hold it together as the guards take them away.

Gendry's my last visitor. As soon as the door shuts I go to him and he locks his arms around me and I nestle against him, feeling safe for perhaps the last time.

"I should've volunteered." he mutters angrily, as Robb did. "When you shook your head it distracted me, but I - Why did you stop me? Arry, I could've protected you."

"No, you couldn't." I disagree. "No-one can protect me. I couldn't let you go in there, too. I couldn't face that, Gendry. We'd both die, and then what would happen to everyone else? Bad enough to lose one of their hunters. If they lost you, too… they'd all starve. And I couldn't lose you, not like that." For a moment, my voice breaks. "If it came down to us two… I couldn't bear it."

We're both silent for a long moment, and I feel a tear drop onto my hair and realise he's crying. After a moment I realise I am, too.

"They just want a good show, that's all they want." he tells me, his voice shaking. "They don't care who wins, not really, as long as it's a good show. You can give them that, just don't… don't give them any reason to hate you."

"There's twenty-four of us." I reply. "Only one comes out."

His arms tighten around me protectively. "And that one will be you." He feels me shaking my head. "Arry, you're my best friend. I can't, I _won't_ believe that-" He breaks off.

For a moment we stand in silence and then I know I have to be practical. "Don't let them starve, Gendry. It'll be hard to get enough food on your own, but Jon said he'll help, when he can, and Bran's eleven, he can help too, I know he wants to. Teach him, Gendry, I know you'll be able to turn him into a hunter."

Gendry's tense, his back rigid. He doesn't want to think about this but he has no choice. "Promise. But it's only temporary anyway."

I pull away to glare at him. How can he be so stubborn? "Gendry-"

He silences me with two fingers on my mouth. "No." he says quietly, and the pain in his eyes shows through the stubbornness and anger. "Don't say it."

I hold his gaze for a moment longer and give in. When he moves his hand from my lips I instead say, "Thank you. For everything. I wouldn't be who I am without you."

"Me either." he tells me. A soldier yells in to warn that we have five minutes. My heart starts hammering in my chest. Gendry reaches into his pocket. "This was meant to be a name-day present. Guess I'll have to think of something else when-" He stops, seeing the look on my face. "I want you to have it now."

He presses something small and golden into my hand. A brooch gleams in the faint light coming through the dirty windows, a circle of gold and inside it a miniature golden direwolf. It's howling, attached to the ring only by the tips of its muzzle and tail.

I'm not one for pretty things but this takes my breath away, and I gasp. "Gendry, it's beautiful. You made this?" That's obvious, he could never afford to buy it, and anyway no-one in Winterfell has anything like this. But it's hard to imagine. Gendry's a blacksmith and an armourer, he makes tools and armour for King's Landing. I never knew he had so much delicacy in him.

He actually looks shy. "Out of the bits of waste gold left in the forge. There's always a few bits that splash or get dropped… Mikken never notices them or uses them, so I did." He takes hold of my shoulders, gently but firmly, and I look up at him. "They let you take one thing into the arena, one token from home. Please wear this." He closes my fingers around the pin. "Wear it and come home."

I lock my arms around his waist, the pin clutched tight in my hand. "I promise I'll wear it." I whisper, knowing I can't promise the second part. "Thank you, Gendry."

We hold each other until the guards call to us. Even then our arms tighten instead of letting go. This is the hardest goodbye of all. There's nothing romantic between us but we have a bond that goes beyond friendship. We've saved lives together.

The soldiers grab our shoulders to pry us apart. They look bored. They have to do this all the time, Gendry won't be punished for this. They accept the difficulty of the last goodbye. As the door closes behind my best friend I clutch the little gold brooch to my chest.

Everything's a blur as the soldiers sweep me and Theon off to the glorified cart that will take us to King's Landing. I promise myself I won't look back but I do. As we pull away from the last huts of the Refuge, I look back at my home, peering past the cloth covering as my familiar keep recedes behind us. Somewhere in the Wolfswood a wolf howls, and it's lucky all the soldiers are focused on us because I hear the Stark wolves take up the call in the keep where they're hidden. Grey Wind, Lady, Summer, Shaggydog, an unfamiliar cry that can only be the usually silent Ghost, and above it all my own dear Nymeria. I didn't even get to say goodbye to her. Now, I know in my heart, they're all saying goodbye to me.

Theon Greyjoy, sprawled on the seat beside me, sniggers. "Guess they know when one of their own's leaving, eh, wolf-girl?" I ignore him but he doesn't care. "I'll give them all your regards when I return."

"You haven't won yet, Greyjoy." I hiss.

"I've got more chance than you. You'll be smaller than the eleven-year-olds in there. What a tale _that_ would be. The proud Arya Stark, who runs with wolves, killed by an eleven-year-old." He laughs.

"Shut up, Greyjoy!" I snap.

"Quiet down, both of you!" the driver orders.

I lean close and whisper in Theon's ear, "What a tale it will be if _I_ return and tell them how you were taken down by little me." I mime throwing a knife at his heart.

He laughs derisively but he looks nervous. I know I wouldn't kill anyone from my District, even him, but he doesn't need to know that. I'm a hunter, I already know how to use weapons he doesn't. Let him be afraid. He doesn't even know just how well I can aim a throwing knife. I'm better with them than I am with the bow.

Our cart rumbles along behind Cersei's carriage. She'll leave us to go to White Harbour before long. We're her first District; now she'll zigzag her way through White Harbour, The Vale of Arryn, Seagard, the Iron Islands and Riverrun. Down south, Arianne Martell, the other escort, will start her tour of the southern Districts with Casterly Rock. We'll meet all the tributes in King's Landing, but it will take us weeks to get there. It's all timed out so we'll all arrive the same day and be presented the next day. For now I have only Theon and our mentor, Jory Cassel, for company. I'm already missing home. I cling tightly to my direwolf pin.


	4. Chapter 3

_**Part 3: King's Landing – The Stylists**_ _(Arya)_

I've never been outside of Winterfell before, but the land makes little impact on me as we pass through it. Some part of me, my hunter's instinct, sees and registers the woods and hills, remembers the way home, but consciously I barely know it's there. The weeks are filled with training for the Games. Jory pushes us hard, teaching us how to use all kinds of weapons, and most evenings Greyjoy and I sit in silence while Jory takes us through the stories of former victors, trying to give us ideas and prepare us to survive.

After several weeks, we finally reach King's Landing. I've never seen anything like it, and though I hate the Targaryens their city takes my breath away. As we pass I gape at all of it, the tiers, the glittering crystal towers, the Red Keep brooding over it all. The King's Gate alone is grander than anything in Winterfell. We drive through the streets and pass markets and taverns and brothels, until at last we reach the great building where we'll be housed until after the presentation.

We're shown to our rooms immediately. I don't even get a glimpse of any other tributes, though I know there must be some here, somewhere. I fall into the bed gratefully, but it takes me ages to get to sleep. The feather bed is far too soft, the fear too thick in my heart. I lie in the dark and think of home.

It seems like I've only been asleep for a few moments when an escort is shaking me awake, dragging me from my bed. I'm still basically asleep, struggling to come awake with my usual ease, so the young man simply lifts me by the shoulders and carries me across the common room I share with Theon. He carts me into a small room with mirrors on all the walls and plonks me on my feet. The shock of the cold on my bare soles finally wakes me up, and I blink at the two stylists in the room as the escort bows out.

They are two men in their thirties or forties, and I immediately feel self-conscious in my silk nightgown. It covers everything but it clings to what little shape I have. The men barely seem to notice. One of them is small and quick, a slender man with dark hair and a pointed chin beard. He wears a silver pin in the shape of a mockingbird. The other man is not tall either, but he's plump, and bald as an egg. The scent of perfume clings to him, so sickly that I want to gag.

He's the one who speaks first. "My name is Varys. This is Petyr Baelish, but you can call him Littlefinger."

I know that name. Petyr Baelish grew up with my mother. But it's never a good idea to speak of the lives people knew before the Games.

"So you're here to make me look pretty?" I ask instead.

"To help you make an impression." Littlefinger replies.

They begin to circle me like crows over carrion, looking me up and down. Even though I have little to hide I cover my chest with my hands instinctively.

Littlefinger chuckles. "Please, girl, I run a brothel. You have nothing I haven't seen. Besides, I like my women more matured."

Varys gives me what is clearly meant to be a reassuring smile and titters at me. "And I'm afraid I am utterly incapable of being aroused by you, child. I have nothing left to give me those feelings. You have nothing to fear from either of us."

Reluctantly, I drop my hands.

They circle me a few more times, muttering quietly to each other, and then Littlefinger stands back while Varys plays with my hair, twisting it this way and that into odd and often ridiculous styles. I stand still, watching in the mirror.

Littlefinger is silent for a time, until he suddenly says, "Cut it off!"

" _I beg your pardon?!_ " Varys snarls back, his voice so far from its former soft tones that I jump like a startled cat, my hair tumbling back around my shoulders.

Littlefinger rolls his eyes. "Keep your corset on, Varys. Her _hair_. Cut it." He moves behind me and shoulders Varys aside, placing his hands just beneath my chin so my hair looks really short. "See the fierceness in her eyes? Like the warrior queen, Nymeria. Like Aegon's own sisters. The crowd will love her. A symbol of strength from the far north, the blood of the First Men. A warrior. Warriors do not have long hair getting in the way."

Varys looks thoughtful. "And the king might even love her if she reminds him of his ancestors. If not, if the crowd love her enough he won't be quick to kill her off, no matter what she does. We may even have a winner for once."

As he busies himself drawing a knife from somewhere in the voluminous robes he wears, Littlefinger leans down and whispers in my ear, "For the love I bore your mother, I will do my best to make them love you. The Games are in your hands, but you are Cat's daughter. If you have any of her fire, you have a chance."

Varys turns back to us with a knife in his hand. The blade is blue, Valyrian steel. "Hold very still."

I don't even twitch a muscle as he takes hold of the hair on one side of my face and cuts. The blade slices so easily that I don't even feel it. With another two slashes he's done. My hair lies on the floor around my feet and my head feels oddly light. Varys takes hold of my chin and turns my face right and left. His hands are soft. In Winterfell everyone, man or woman, has calloused hands. Working hands. His baby-soft touch is unnerving.

"Good." he says, stepping back proudly.

I stare at myself in the mirror. I look so different, older, harder, wilder. My face suddenly looks very round, though I've always thought of it as long. I almost look like a boy; I could pass for one but for the small shape of my chest. Above all, I look like a warrior, more than I ever did with my old braid.

"Wonderful." Littlefinger agrees.

They take measurements of my body and release me. I'm allowed to return to my room, dress and have breakfast as they drag Theon in. I spend a few hours pacing, toying restlessly with my direwolf pin. I look out of one of the windows and I can see the last of the tributes arriving. I turn away. I'll have to hear all their names and see all their faces later, I can't face it now.

In the late afternoon the stylists call me back in. This time they strip me completely, both ignoring my nakedness and my protests, and begin to dress me in new clothes, starting with undergarments soft as silk. The last layer is a blood-red dress, the skirt layered so it almost looks torn at the bottom where it brushes my knees. As though I've already started the fight. Varys tells me to twirl, and when I do the light catches on a thousand tiny orange gems, so that I look like I am decorated in flames, or at least wisps of fire. Then come bits of armour, gold all of it, but encrusted with a scattering of these same orange gems. There are shoulder pads, shin guards, greaves, even a simple headband set with a blood-red stone. We won't be allowed armour in the arena, but this is the interviews. This probably wouldn't stand up to blows anyway; it's only a costume. It does look good, though, even if I do feel like a warrior who's misplaced her breastplate.

My stylists look proud as they look at me. "You can see the spirit of the First Men in her." Littlefinger breathes.

Varys nods. "She's ready." he says, but Littlefinger shakes his head.

"Not quite, I think." He holds up my pin, which he must have taken from my clothes. "Where did you get this?"

I bite my lip, afraid they'll take it. "It was a gift. My friend made it for me from the waste gold in the forge. It's my token."

"A pretty thing." Varys murmurs.

"A talented friend." Littlefinger agrees. He steps forward and fixes it to the dress, near my left shoulder. Over my heart. "There. Now she's ready. The Wolf of Winterfell."

They shoo me out then and a servant leads me downstairs so they can work on Theon again. When they join me a little later - Theon now dressed in silver armour and a plumed helm that looks really stupid, and Littlefinger nowhere to be seen - we go through into a massive stable of sorts. There are stalls for horses along one wall, but they're all empty. The horses are out and harnessed, all twenty-four of them. Twelve gilded chariots sit in a semi-circle, each with two horses. The tributes are all coming in now, and each District pair is led to their chariot. I climb up beside Greyjoy.

He smirks down at me. "You lose your breastplate, Stark?"

I ignore him, wondering about the glowing pot in Varys' hands. Around us, the other tributes are in position, but in the dim half-light it's hard to get a good look at them. The names are always called in a random order, Jory told me that, so there's no way to know who'll go first or when we'll go. My heart starts to hammer. Just beyond those doors the crowd is waiting; the people who can't wait to watch us tear each other apart, and the king who started all this.


	5. Chapter 4

_**Part 4: King's Landing – The Tributes**_ _(Arya)_

The huge doors begin to open, letting light in, and we can hear the crowds. These chariots will take us through the city, parading us as far as the gates of the Red Keep. The presenter of the Games - Littlefinger this year, I recognise the voice - is already speaking to the crowd. His voice echoes through the city, amplified by, you guessed it, the Red Woman. There's a different host every year. I never realised any could double as stylists.

"And now, lords and ladies, your tributes for the 19th Red Games! From Cape Wrath, Grenn-"

The crowd are so excited for the Games that they're already cheering, and I don't catch his surname or the girl's name. The chariot pulls out of the circle and moves out into the sun. The boy is tall and muscled but doesn't look bright or fast. The girl is tall, too, but skinny, and she looks terrified. Both have mousy hair and pale skin. Their stylists have dressed them in Dothraki-style clothes, and they look ridiculous.

"From Whiteharbour-" The names are lost in the rumble of the wheels as the carriage next to ours pulls away.

They're both unremarkable, a slim girl of sixteen with blonde hair and a lean dark-haired boy of perhaps thirteen. They're dressed in simple white.

"From Riverrun, Hot Pie and-" The girl's name is unintelligible, bar 'Tully'.

Neither of these two is a threat. The girl's a tiny slip of a thing, pale and shaking, with red Tully hair but none of the spirit I've seen in my mother. Hot Pie - can that really be his name? - is a pudgy boy trying and failing to look menacing.

"From Seagard-" The cheer of the crowd obliterates the rest.

Seagard is a Career distrisct. They always give a good show, the three Career districts. They train all year, even glorify the Games and sometimes volunteer for the hell of it. Like as not, the winner will be one of them. Seagard's pair both look like potential winners. The boy has the characteristic Frey look, dull blonde hair, sharp face, strong. The Freys of The Twins make up over a third of the population of Seagard. The girl is no Frey, but a crannogwoman of Greywater Watch. Her hair is dark and curly, her eyes full of fire and cunning, her body small but undoubtedly strong and fast. The Reeds of Greywater Watch were friends to my family before the rebellion. My father sometimes speaks of Howland Reed with pride and affection. I hope that girl isn't one of them.

"From Highgarden, Samwell Tarly and Margaery Tyrell!" The crowd are slower to cheer. Highgarden are strong contenders too, but mainly because they're better fed and healthier than the rest of us. Their edge comes from health, not from skill. Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, was on Aerys' side in the war. His thanks is that his people are slightly less likely to starve.

I pity the boy. He's… I can only describe him as fat. The chariot is actually sagging on his side. He has no chance, and it's a shame, because he looks like a nice guy. The girl's another matter entirely. House Tyrell were one of the great Houses before the war. They've had a few victories in the Games. Margaery is a slender seventeen-year-old, with long, luscious brown hair, a delicate, beautiful face, and the body to match. There are hidden muscles in her arms. The delicate dress she wears will fool many people, but not me. I see her strength, and when she smiles at me I see the cunning behind her eyes.

"From Winterfell-" As our chariot starts to move Varys grabs a taper from his pot and touches the burning end to the rim of the chariot. Green flame erupts around us, but though the heat is intense the fire is contained. He grins up at us as we pull out into the sunlight, and I can see the light dancing on the gems of my costume. "-Theon Greyjoy and Arya Stark!"

The crowd screams in horror at the sight of the wildfire, but it turns to adoration in moments. Cheers erupt all around us, louder even than the screams for Seagard, as we ride through the city. Greyjoy smiles and waves like the idiot he is - like a Career. To be fair, he was born a Career. I won't even acknowledge the crowd. I just stare straight ahead, refusing even to look at the small red patches in the air that signify the Red Woman's viewers.

We come to the open area before the Red Keep and are paraded around the circle before the king and his family and the other tributes. Margaery Tyrell and the girl from Riverrun scream, and then Margaery laughs and cheers with the rest. Tully still looks frightened. We pull in alongside the pair from Highgarden. Margaery looks envious but Samwell shies away a little, scared.

The crowd are still cheering so loudly that I only catch the words 'The Vale'. The chariot pulls up beside us shortly, and the boy, a sickly-looking thing, shies back from the fire. The girl, a nineteen-year-old, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, looks edgy too.

"From the Stormlands, Lommy Greenhands and Sarina of Tarth!"

Lommy's a skinny boy with curly blonde hair and nervous hands, probably my age. Sarina is both older and taller, and she almost looks like a man, muscled and with her blonde hair cut shorter than mine. They're wearing clothes of a stormy grey, silver satin, and silver headbands.

"From Starfall on the Summer Sea-" I let my hand drift too close to flames and jump, missing the boy's name, though I catch the bastard name Sand. "-and Rue Forel!"

The boy's not memorable, a typical Dornishman with black hair and bronzed skin, but the girl would win any heart. She can't be more than eleven; she looks nine. Her skin is dark, her wildly curly hair darker. Her eyes are wide, great soft brown eyes. Her silver-blue dress even has wings on it. She really brings home the message that the Games are about killing children. A whisper of awe runs right through the crowd.

"From the Iron Islands-" Another Career district, though I catch the second name this time. "-Asha Greyjoy!"

Greyjoy? As in-? Theon's face has gone rigid, white as snow. When the chariot pulls past us I don't notice the boy, I'm looking at her. Yes, she must be Theon's sister, barely older. I see a resemblance there, that hardness of the face that comes from the harsh lives on the Islands, the harsh lives that made the Ironborn Careers. Her expression mimics Theon's.

"From Sunspear way down in the south, Pypar Sand and Sandria Martell!"

The boy, Pypar, is small, with big ears and a face that seems unable to look scared. His eyes smile, probably always do. Sandria's only twelve, I'd say, thick dark hair tumbling around a flat body, her skin olive-toned. I can see her lips moving, reciting the House words of Martell quietly.

The crowd actually remain quiet to hear the last pair. They're also the last Career District. "And finally, from Casterly Rock, Joffrey Lannister and Myrcella Lannister!"

Lannister. Could it be? When I see them I know they're Cersei's. Both have her green eyes and golden curls. Myrcella is a wisp of a thing who wouldn't survive five minutes if she wasn't a Career. They always band together, so the others will protect her. Joffrey will be dangerous. He's a true Career, proud, smirking, with a psychotic look in his eyes. Both are wearing golden armour with lion helmets.

I turn to look for Cersei and see her, still-faced and horrified, on a balcony with Arianne and the victors. Jory's up there, talking quietly with the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. I recognise Renly Baratheon, a surprise victor from a few years ago, and Freya Frey of Seagard, and a tall muscled woman who must be Brienne of Tarth. I wonder if Sarina's her sister. I recognise last year's winner, too, Loras Tyrell, brother, I assume, to Margaery. He's a handsome boy, twenty now. He and Renly are making eyes at each other. Each to their own, but they're stupid. They come from different Districts, what do they plan to do, have a secret tryst once a year? I suppose it could work, though it seems stupid to me.

On a stage just inside the gates - which are open but heavily guarded - the royal family stand with their personal retainers. I see Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and Ser Jorah Mormont, personal protector of Aerys' only daughter. Melisandre, the Red Woman, Aerys' pet, stands near his side, nearer than his own wife, her red robes billowing. Aerys himself is magnificent, robed in black and red with the three-headed dragon of his House on his doublet, white hair like a cloak across his shoulders. The crown on his head shines in the light. His shoulders are slightly twisted with age and he has a fevered look in his eyes, yet he's still magnificent. His son, the crown prince Rhaegar, stands at his side, his eyes taking in all our faces like he's desperate to remember us all. Rhaegar's wife, Elia, stands at her husband's right elbow. She's from what was called Dorne, split now into Sunspear and Starfall, but if she feels anything for the doomed children of her home she gives no sign, even though one is a Martell, as she was. I suppose it would mean death for her to show emotion. Living so close to the king, emotion would be defiance. Her own children, the beautiful princess Rhaenys, with her olive skin and white hair, and Prince Aegon, stand off to the side a little. Just back from Rhaegar are the king's other children, Viserys and Daenerys, both silver-haired like him. Viserys stares at us haughtily, like we are nothing but meat to be butchered, but Daenerys - who's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, outshining Margaery and Elia and Rhaenys - is the only one up there who looks sad. When her violet eyes meet mine, I see the guilt there, and a deep desire to end this. A slow, burning anger. She's barely older than me, only seventeen. I can see that she hates this, but what can she do against her king and father?

I catch Rhaegar staring at me too. His expression is unreadable. What does he see? His far distant ancestor, Visenya or Rhaenys, perhaps? Or only a doomed girl half-hidden behind wildfire? Does he like it or hate me for it, and should I even care? His gaze moves over us all again, and then he glances at Daenerys and sees the look on her face. He leans back and whispers something in her ear quietly. I'm not great at lip-reading, but I could swear it's _"Don't worry, sister. This is the last time we'll have to watch this."_. Daenerys gives a single nod. What are they cooking up?

Littlefinger is still babbling on, giving the history of the Games. He's good, I'll give him that. Captivating, somehow almost magnetic, no matter how much you hate the Games. At length Melisandre waves her hand and all the world watches our Reapings. I'm glad I kept calm. Tully and the boy from The Vale both broke down crying, and I hear Careers snickering. So's Theon. Ass. There's only one volunteer this year: Joffrey Lannister of Casterly Rock. Why doesn't that surprise me?

After the replays we're called up, one by one, to that small stage for interviews. We'll find out how our trainers scored us as well. This is our chance to impress or frighten other tributes, to get the crowd on side - they can't help us once we're in there, but I swear Aerys has let potential rebellion pass unanswered when the tribute in question has been a crowd favourite. We go in District order, boy then girl, boy then girl. I'm so overwhelmed by everything that I only catch bits as Littlefinger calls the others up one by one.

Hot Pie tries to seem dangerous and fails. The boy from Seagard namedrops previous winners who were relatives - a lot of Freys have won. The girl has a naturally mysterious air to her - she is a Reed, Meera Reed, and apparently she has all the cunning of Greywater Watch in her veins. Margaery Tyrell acts all sweet and innocent. Greyjoy - as in Theon - talks like a Career and makes himself look like a total idiot. Then it's my turn.

I walk up to the stage and join Littlefinger, who takes my hand and kisses it, winking at me. "Welcome, Arya Stark. _That_ was quite an entrance - Varys' idea, no doubt. Were you afraid of the fire, child?"

"Not at all." I reply confidently.

He smiles at me. "You look like Visenya reborn, or the very spirit of the First Men." He spins a finger. "Twirl for me?"

I spin, one quick turn, letting my gems coat me in false fire. A murmur of awe runs through the crowd and I see a look pass between Rhaegar and Daenerys again.

"Beautiful." Littlefinger murmurs. "You're training score was impressive - Jory Cassel gave you a ten."

Ten? We're rated out of twelve. Nine and up is usually reserved for Careers.

"Tell me, Arya… can you win this?"

How do I answer? "I won't be easy to take down. We Starks are hard to kill."

The corners of his lips twitch towards a secret smile, though whether it's meant for my eyes I don't know. "That you are. And these others… some say that no tribute here could kill them. Joffrey Lannister, Asha Greyjoy, Waltyr Frey… They got elevens in training. Do you believe what some say?"

"No." I answer, glancing briefly at the three. "Anyone can be killed."

His gaze falls on my pin. "That's very beautiful. Your token?" He knows, but he's asking for the crowd's sake.

"Yes. It was a gift. The direwolf's the sigil of my House."

"May it grant you strength." He kisses my hand again, then holds it high in the air. "Lords and ladies, the Girl on Fire, the Wolf of Winterfell, Arya Stark!"

I don't think I was very good, but the crowd erupt into wild cheering. As I return to my chariot the boy from The Vale - Robert Arryn - is called up. He's too scared to speak, just keeps crying. He's barely old enough for this. Lommy from the Stormlands is better, sly and cunning and quick, while Sarina's sheer build is memorable. Little Rue from Starfall is captivating with her beautiful eyes and tiny wings.

"Do you stand a chance?" Littlefinger asks her.

"I'm fast." she replies straight away, with a grin. "If they can't catch me, they can't kill me. Don't count me out."

"Never." Littlefinger promises, though I know the Careers already have.

Asha Greyjoy is a true Career, a true Ironborn, tough and confident but quiet, almost sullen. Pypar Storm is witty, trading sallies with Littlefinger, joking, making japes about himself and the other tributes. If he survives this he should take up mummery. Joffrey is utterly psychotic, just keeps saying how he'll kill us all and emerge victorious, talking about how Casterly Rock will be his one day. Myrcella talks a lot about Joffrey, to hide her own weakness. She doesn't stand a chance of winning.

The names shimmer through my head - Greyjoy, Lannister, Tyrell, Martell, Tully, Arryn, Stark. Seven of the ancient great Houses, with Targaryen overseeing it all - as for the Baratheons, Renly's the only trueborn Baratheon left, and given the way he's flirting with Loras Tyrell, I don't think he'll be furthering the House. Then the smaller Houses, too - Tarly, Reed, Tarth, Frey. Aside from a few, most of tonight's tributes are from once-noble Houses. This is the year of the lords' children.

Then it's over, and there's a last announcement that following the Games Daenerys Targaryen will wed and the victor will have a place of honour at the ceremony. After giving this announcement Littlefinger steps back and the Red Woman takes the stage. The light of the torches - night is falling by now - glimmers on the ruby at her throat, and the wildfire on our chariot casts eerie green shadows across her pale face.

"May the odds be ever in your favour." she says to all of us, her voice rich and ringing. Her eyes settle on me and hold. "For the night is dark, and full of terrors."

I hold her gaze as the chariots file out one by one, hold it until my own chariot pulls away and turns back towards the building where we sleep. We're whisked away to our individual sections by our stylists. Varys titters at me and Theon, telling us how great we were, but I know he's lying about Theon, at least, so he's probably lying about me too. Eventually he bids us goodnight and leaves, and I retire to my room. I can't sleep though, no matter how long I lie on the soft mattress. At last, when I hear Theon's door close, I fix my pin to my nightdress and tiptoe out of my room and out of our apartment.


	6. Chapter 5

_**Part 5: King's Landing – The Imp**_ _(Arya)_

The stone floors are cold under my bare feet, but I pad silently on, not sure what I'm looking for. If anyone asks me I'll claim I was looking for a drink, though they do leave water in the rooms. There's even a flagon of ale - or there was. I didn't see it on my way through, so I guess Greyjoy's got it.

I'm in an unfamiliar corridor when I hear voices from one of the rooms - not tributes, but Tyrion and Cersei Lannister. I know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but something draws me near. I realise that Cersei's crying.

"It's not fair! My babies, my babies are both here!"

"Joffrey made this choice." Tyrion tells her, as soothingly as he can.

"Myrcella didn't!" she snaps back at him, and I hear wine slosh against the wall. "She won't make it, she won't! Joff can win, Joff will win, but my baby girl… She has no chance! You win, or you die! She won't make it!"

"I wish there was something…" Tyrion begins uncertainly.

"What? That you could do? You could have lost. You could have lost your Games and that oaf of a soldier that I married would never have noticed me, and I could at least have been there with them these last years! Better yet, you could have never been born, and mother would never have died, and father would have been stronger. Maybe we would have won the war!"

Peering carefully through the gap were the door is ajar, I see Tyrion turn away. I duck back as I see him move for the door, then hear Cersei calling after him.

"Tyrion. Maybe that was… too far. Unkind. I don't like you, but…"

"But nothing, sweet sister. Your children are in danger. Like any good lioness, you lash out."

There's silence for a moment, then Cersei speaks again. "This is our punishment, Tyrion. Yours, mine, Mace Tyrell's, Eddard Stark's, all the great lords. Not just for the rebellion, for every sin we've ever committed, every wrong of our ancestors. This is the price, for what we've done."

"No, Cersei. This is the price for our predecessors' failures. This is the will of a Mad King. The gods can't punish us. They don't exist. Not the Seven, nor the old gods, nor the Red Woman's precious Lord of Light. This is simply our life."

I back off from the door as he comes through, but not fast enough. He finds me and regards me calmly with his mismatched eyes as he closes the door behind him, leaving Cersei to her tears. Not many people are smaller than me; it feels odd to look down at him. His hair is matted and damp from the wine.

"You are Arya Stark." he says.

"Yes. You're Tyrion Lannister."

He smiles. "Everyone remembers the Imp. Hard to forget the shortest victor ever."

"Hard to forget the most inspirational." I blurt. He puts his head slightly to one side, bemused. "I… you were the one they said couldn't survive. You had no chance. The odds were never in your favour but you won anyway. That's impressive. In my District, the odds are never in anyone's favour. We survive, like you did. To us… you're the closest thing there is to a hero."

"Winterfell, isn't it? Your District? Cold place, harsh. Funny, a long time ago, I heard the death rate from starvation there was very high. Recently, I've heard it's much lower. I can't imagine the Targaryen's increasing the food quotas. You wouldn't know anything about it, would you, Lady Stark?"

I shrug. "We're tough people."

"And you Starks are hard to kill. Yes, yes. There are none of the Red Woman's viewers here, child."

"The walls have ears." I won't admit to hunting. The king won't kill me now, he likes to have all the tributes to begin with, but it might spark an investigation and then Gendry could get hurt. "And the Spider has little birds."

"Very well. But let me give you some advice, Wolf of Winterfell. The world remembers me. They always will. They remember me because I shouldn't have won, but I did. You are small. You are skinny. You come from one of the poorest Districts. The odds are not in your favour, yet you have won the hearts of the people. You are strong. You are brave. And you have a symbol, that could become a symbol to the world." His pudgy fingers brush across my pin. "You can win this. Do so, make sure they remember you, and you will be remembered forever. I never knew how to use it. Maybe you will."

He turns and walks away, and the torches cast his shadow as tall as a king. I stare after him for a long moment, wondering what he meant. After a while I turn and make my way back to my room. I took a lot of twists and turns to get here, but my hunter's instincts remember the way, and I don't get lost. Back in my room, I crawl into bed, curl up and dream of the Wolfswood.

This night is even shorter than the last. Too soon Littlefinger wakes me from my dreams and drags me from bed to help me dress. A light tunic first, then a thick leather jerkin and soft, tawny leggings, leather gloves without fingers and thick, soft-soled boots. A shadowskin cloak completes the outfit. Shadowskin is a warm, valuable material. They give it to us because watching tributes die of cold is boring.

Once I'm dressed Littlefinger fixes my pin to the neck of the tunic without a word. He touches my hair silently, and we join Theon and Varys in the common room. Theon's dressed exactly the same as me - all the tributes will be. We walk in silence to the stables, where four covered carts wait to take us all to the arena. Greyjoy's not smiling now; I think he's finally truly realised what's happening. The other tributes are already climbing into the carts. The Careers claim one between them, laughing and bragging already. No-one else is. Every tribute who isn't from Casterly Rock, Seagard or the Iron Islands is subdued.

Theon climbs into the nearest cart without a word to our stylists, but I turn back, wanting to thank them. The words stick in my throat but it doesn't matter, they know.

Varys strokes my cheek with a small, sad smile. "Farewell, Arya Stark. May the odds be ever in your favour."

Littlefinger leans in and kisses my other cheek. "Best of luck, Wolf of Winterfell."

I nod to them, since I can't find the words, then climb into the cart opposite Theon. Before long I have the Vale boy on one side of me and Tully from Riverrun on the other - I try not to wonder whether we're closely related. The pair from White Harbour are in with us too. I ignore all the others, just put my hand over my direwolf pin and try to prepare.

It takes a few days to get to the arena, but those days pass quickly. We ride in the carts by day, and we sleep at night. There's no talking for most of us, no banter, no making friends. Targaryen soldiers guard our camps closely. Only the Careers make any real noise. Joffrey, Asha and the boys from the Iron Islands and Seagard are loud and brash. Myrcella stays quiet, forcing laughs and hiding her fear. Meera is silent, but I don't think it's fear. She's busy sizing up the rest of us. I wonder if she can see as clearly as I can which tributes won't survive. They're easy to pick out - the guards are betting on who'll die first as well as who'll win. I can hear them at night when I'm too frightened to sleep. Even though he's from Highgarden, Sam has a lot of money on him. Robert Arryn, Rue, the girls from The Vale and Riverrun… they all have money on them. I hear Theon's name being tossed around, along with Hot Pie and Lommy, though no-one bets on them as the first to go. A few bet on them as second or third. I hear my name mentioned and dismissed.

The potential winners are discussed on the third night, after all bets have been made on the victims. I hear Joffrey, Asha and Meera discussed the most. Myrcella is never even mentioned - Career or no, she stands no chance. Frey and the boy from the Iron Islands are suggested, but their odds are low. Sarina's considered, as is Margaery, and sometime near dawn I'm surprised to hear a couple of the soldiers putting money on me. That's nuts. I don't have a chance. But I am going to fight this thing out, to whatever end.

The next morning we reach the arena. Bags are shoved over our heads and we're steered or literally carried from the cart. I can smell woods somewhere close, and hear the rustle of leaves, but I hear wind through stone as well, closer. I smell dust and decay. I try to paint a picture of my surroundings through scent and sound but it's hard, some of the smells are unfamiliar, and then I'm out of time. I'm dumped heavily on hard stone and some kind of energy runs across my skin. It's warm and threatening and I know instinctively that it is the Red Woman's power. She's reaching out to touch each of us briefly, getting familiar with our feel from a distance. If any of us step out of line, she'll incinerate us from King's Landing.

The bag is whipped off my head and I hear the soldiers retreating as the light floods my senses and I try to blink my eyes back into focus. Overhead, a great dome of light ripples out over crumbling roof tops and towers. I recognise the shapes from Maester Luwin's old books: Harrenhal. I move to a crouch, looking around. I'm between two chunks of rubble, with a clear view of the cornucopia. I can see knives, swords, spears, axes, and bags that could hold literally anything. I can't see the other tributes, but I know they're nearby, probably in a circle around the supplies. I fix my eyes on a sword and a bag straight ahead, directly between me and another way out - a way up into the ruins. I glance around me and find only rocks. I can't see the woods. I'll have to just make a run for the easiest way out before the bloodbath begins.

I lock my eyes back on the sword and bag as the Red Woman's dome inches towards the ground. When it touches the earth, there will be a signal of some kind, and the 19th Red Games will begin.


	7. Chapter 6

_**Part 6: Harrenhal – The Games**_ _(Arya)_

It seems an age of waiting, my heart beating in my chest, the only sound the wind among the ruins. Then there's an earsplitting sound, like tearing, scraping metal, the signal to begin the Red Games. I hear other tributes screaming, the ones who've never heard anything so piercing, but some of us have heard similar before. I've stood outside the forge watching Gendry and Mikken work. Sometimes metal scrapes on metal and you feel like your ears are being ripped off. It doesn't throw me for a second, but I'm not the only one.

Theon and I are already running, as are the pair from the Iron Islands. I may be small but I'm fast. I make the cornucopia first, snatching the sword and bag from the ground without breaking stride. As I make for the gap I feel someone catch the back of my cloak. On instinct, I duck as the Ironborn boy's mace whistles over my head. Automatically, I spin and swing my bag at him, hearing a chink of metal as it strikes him in the head. He goes down with a grunt and blood running down his face as I break free and run, the bag now on my back and the sword still in its sheath in my hand. I manage to swipe a full waterskin from the ground, too.

I dash away into the ruins, passing Tully, who cowers away. She's huddling against a wall, terrified; I could take her out with ease, but I just keep running, fleeing into the rundown corridors, looking for a hiding place. Here and there I see the Red Woman's viewers out of the corners of my eyes. They're everywhere in here; even when I can't see them, I know there'll be no hiding from them.

At length I find a crumbling staircase that appears to go nowhere. It ends seven steps up, but I climb it anyway, and at the top I'm rewarded with a narrow gap in the falling wall, right where wall and ceiling meet. I push bag and sword through and scramble up after them, finding myself on the next floor. The bloodbath will go on for a while. I should be safe here until nightfall.

I find a corner of the room where I can see both the hole I came through and the door - though the door is mostly covered with rubble - and settle down to examine my spoils. I draw the sword from its sheath first. I have only a little experience with swords, the brief training I got from Jory on the way down here, but it'll be enough to protect myself if I have to. It's a skinny blade, a bravo's blade, well-balanced and a perfect size for me. It glimmers blue, folds rippling along the steel - Valyrian steel, rare, valuable - this sword wasn't meant for someone like me. This was meant for the Careers, unless… I wonder briefly if Littlefinger has any sway over what's in here, if he's trying to help me. _'For the love I bore your mother…'_ It doesn't really matter. The blade is a good one and I managed to get it.

When I open the bag I find it full of knives. I can't stop the grin spreading across my face. This is my weapon, the throwing knife. Most of them are throwing knives, strong steel, some with the blue tint of Valyrian steel, but there's also a skinning blade. The knives will be no good to me in the bag. I take them all out, laying them out around me, testing them as I do so. There's one dud, a weak, steel-veneered tin knife that would get me killed if I tried to use it - a game of Westerosi roulette. I discard that one and cut the straps from the bag, turning them into belts that I can strap over my body and across my chest in an x-shape. I cut slits in them and tuck the knives into them. They're good leather straps and they hold well. I put the skinning knife through my belt and find a whetstone at the bottom of the pack. I turn what's left of the pack into a knapsack to carry it and any food I find.

By now night's falling. I need to find my way out of these ruins, to the woods I smelled earlier. I'll be in my element out there, but I need to find my way out first. I'll wait 'til full dark.

As dusk falls the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen appears overhead on the red dome. I shift across to the window to peer up at the sky as the faces of the dead follow the dragon across the night in the order in which they fell. Samwell Tarly from Highgarden appears first. He never really stood a chance. He was a big target, and there was no malice in his eyes, no real fight. He was too gentle for this. Tully's next, followed by the boy from Whiteharbour, then the Sunspear girl and then the girl from Whiteharbour. Robert Arryn appears last - I guess maybe he hid until after the bloodbath was over, then got killed. Six dead. A quarter of us gone already. The Targaryen dragon appears again, and the sky goes dark.

Time to move.

I wonder if I can climb up and out of the window I watched through, scramble along the walls until I find the way out, but I dismiss the idea. I'm good in the trees, but Bran's the real climber of the family. On the walls, I'm hopeless at finding footholds; the branches are my world. Falling to my death seems like a really stupid way to die here. I strap my sword to my belt, check that the coast is clear and wriggle back out through the hole and onto the stairs. I land with a light thump, roll off the steps and duck under them, heart thumping, listening for any sound. There's nothing. I know the Careers will hunt night and day, at least for a time, so night's safer. Easier to hide.

I creep through the dark hallways, silent as only a hunter can be. Passing rooms, I spot some of the others. Sarina of Tarth is sitting against a wall, a beam of wood in her hands. She doesn't see me as I sneak by. I pass a very dark room and catch a glimpse of pale skin in the single beam of moonlight falling through a hole in the ceiling, and somehow I know it's Margaery. Anyone can ally, and she'd be a strong ally to have, but she'd probably put a knife in my back.

My search takes me past the start point, where the Careers are still divvying up the supplies. They're all there, of course, though the Ironborn boy has a roughly cleaned gash from my blow and Meera Reed has a bloodstained bandage on her arm. They're comparing supplies and kills, laughing like friends. The Careers are often referred to as a 'wolf pack'.

Watching them, I remember something my father has said a few times: _'When Winter comes and the cold winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.'_

We'll see about that this time. I sneak away, and as I go I see Greyjoy watching them. Is he thinking of trying to join them? Idiot. They'll never let him. I can count on one hand the number of times tributes from other districts have joined the Career pack. Those few times, they've been from Sunspear. They're Dornish, tough warriors, skilled with weapons, the closest to Careers themselves. Theon doesn't see me, and I slip away unnoticed.

I creep through corridor after corridor, searching in the dark for a way out and finding none. Around midnight I come across another room, another campfire. The boys from Cape Wrath and Sunspear, Grenn and Pypar, are inside. It's rare that anyone other than Careers allies, but it does happen. I guess they just try not to become friends and don't think about maybe having to kill each other eventually.

The night gives me nothing, neither food nor a way out. As dawn touches the east I hear a high-pitched scream and know the Careers are hunting. That scream was close, too close, and I hurry away from the sound quickly, and scramble up the rubble of a fallen wall. There's a gap at the top, just big enough for me to wriggle through, and I emerge onto the next floor in another corridor. I sneak across the open space and check a room across the hall. Empty. Not even any furniture or rubble. Nowhere to hide. I hear sounds in the corridor below, harsh laughter and voices, and I run on silent feet. Not far away there's a pile of rubble almost covering a hole in the wall. There could be another tribute in there, but I'll take any of the others over the Careers. The room beyond is empty, the ceiling fallen in, so I can see into the room above and through that to the sky, but there's an old fireplace on one wall and three huge slabs of stone hide the entrance. When I carefully check, it's empty and hollow, so I crawl in and settle down to wait out the day.

The Careers pass just once, doing a cursory sweep of the room, but they don't find my hiding place. The chimney is mostly blocked, but there's enough of a gap in it that I can see when the sky darkens towards evening. The faces of today's dead appear: the scream I heard this morning was the girl from The Vale, and the boy from Starfall and the girl from Cape Wrath are gone too. I'm impressed to think that little Rue has lasted so long.

I head out under the dying light of dusk, tired, because I only slept a little in the rough fireplace, but alert, wary. This night yields little more than the last. I find food in the form of a roosting pigeon and a rat - the Careers will have stockpiled any food the Targaryen soldiers put in the cornucopia. I find no way out. Just before midnight, I make camp on the ground floor tonight, since the Careers will have moved their hunt upward, hoping to trap tributes on the higher levels. I find a little alcove in what might once have been a washroom and, having checked for any other ways out and found none, I light a small fire where I'm sure it won't be seen. It's not cold here, not for someone from Winterfell, but I need to cook this meat. I'm starving as I skin the rat and pluck the pigeon. We eat pigeon pie sometimes at home, but I'm apprehensive about the rat. Still, needs must.

I have the pigeon turning on a spit made of bits of wooden debris when I hear the noise. Someone's in here and they're coming closer; two someones. The smell of the meat. I didn't think of that. Cursing my stupidity, I stand and draw my sword. It's probably Grenn and Pypar, since it's two, and I don't stand a chance, but I will go down fighting. Only it's not them.

Hot Pie and Lommy, the boys from Riverrun and the Stormlands, stand a few feet away. Neither draws a weapon; what they hold is bags of food. They eye my sword uneasily.

"We, uh… we smelled the meat." Lommy explains, fidgeting nervously. "We didn't get any weapons at the melee so we couldn't hunt. We don't know how anyway. We got fruit, and mushrooms." His eyes dart around anxiously. Hot Pie's never leave the pigeon. "Careers aren't the only ones who can ally."

"You want me for an ally?" I ask, surprised and suspicious.

"You're tough." Lommy points out. "You can hunt. You have weapons. And… we found the way outside."

' _Outside!'_ To the woods, where I'll be in element! I've searched so hard and found nothing. Hot Pie's stomach growls loudly and I decide.

"Ok. You're right, we can ally too. Show me the way into the woods and I can hunt better food than pigeon and rat." I lower my sword, though I don't sheathe it. "I don't have much meat, but there'll be enough for the three of us for one night."

"These'll go with it." Lommy holds out a bag of mushrooms.

We settle down around my small fire, uncertain of each other, wary. As I turn the meat I keep my sword by my side, just in case, but I think I'll be ok with these two, at least for now. When the pigeon's cooked I shear off a leg for each of them and a chunk of meat for myself, then get the rat cooking so we can have it cold for breakfast. We eat in silence, the grease running down our hands and chins, and we split the raw mushrooms between us. When we finish Hot Pie shows me another bag, one full of berries I don't recognise.

"These'll make a great desert." he says, the first words he's spoken. He doesn't seem a thing like the menacing boy he was trying to be in his interview.

"I keep telling you, they're poisonous." Lommy rolls his eyes.

"But you're just guessing. You don't _know_." Hot Pie lifts a handful to his mouth defiantly.

"Pretty stupid way to die here." I say, thinking of that pair a few years ago.

Hot Pie pauses, then tosses the berries away. Some might have let him kill his stupid self and had one less opponent, but I couldn't do that. Maybe it was stupid, but I took him as an ally, so I won't betray him like that. He's looking at me curiously, probably wondering if I'm sane. Uncomfortable, I take out my whetstone and begin to sharpen my sword. I've decided to call it Needle, since it's small and slender, and I'm always arguing with Sansa over needlework. It's like a little tie to home.

"If you found a way out, why did you come back in?" I ask as I sharpen.

"Looking for weapons." Lommy shrugs.

"And food." Hot Pie puts in. "Weapons and food. But the Careers have it all."

"Some of the others have allied." Lommy adds. "They have weapons."

I nod. I saw a sword and a long knife with Grenn and Pypar. "Has anyone else got out?"

"We thought we were being watched. So someone has."

"That was just the Red Woman's viewers." Hot Pie says it like he's said it a thousand times.

"They watch us in the Districts. This was different." Lommy insists. He looks at the knives strapped to my chest. "Are you going to give us knives?"

"Maybe." I reply. "If you don't try to kill me in my sleep."

He looks a bit annoyed, but he nods. We notice that Hot Pie has fallen asleep. "Guess we should do the same." I suggest.

Lommy nods again. "Yeah. You sleep. I'll watch for a few hours, then wake you. We'll need daylight to find the way out again."

"Ok. Thanks." I have no intention of sleeping as I lie down with my hand on my sword's hilt. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep, listening as Lommy settles himself more comfortably. I don't trust him not to kill me.


	8. Chapter 7

_**Part 7: Harrenhal – The Allies**_ _(Arya)_

I only know I've slept when Lommy's shaking me awake. I've turned over and my sword lies on my other side, out of easy reach. I'd've been easy prey.

As I blink up at Lommy, he softly says, "Your turn to watch."

I nod and sit up, looking from the sword to him as I pick it up and sheath it. He understands the question.

"Even with your knives, we couldn't hunt. We don't know how. And three could survive better than two." He lies down, curling into a ball. It must be cold for him here. "Wake me at dawn, when there's a bit of light. It won't be long."

He says no more, and I wonder at his excuse for not killing me. I think maybe he just doesn't have it in him to kill; it felt like he was trying to hide something, make excuses. I spend the hours in silence, reflecting on the fact that I have allies. I never expected to. I tuck my cloak around me and bank down the fire. I leave it smoldering for Lommy's sake. The Stormlands are south of here, and he's wrapped very tightly in his cloak. He's used to warmer nights. If it's hard for him it must be hell for the kids from Starfall and Sunspear, cloaks or no cloaks.

As dawn touches the east, I wake the two boys. We eat a small breakfast of rat - it's pretty nasty, but once I'm in the woods we'll eat better. When it's time to go I hand each of them two knives. They take them eagerly and tuck them into their belts, but I wonder if they know how to use them. We put out the fire and scatter the ash, then head out. Lommy leads as we creep through the silent ruins. It's barely light and even the Careers may be asleep. We hear the sounds of crying from somewhere, but we creep on past. Honour would dictate that I should try to help, but it could be a trap. The corridors are empty. It occurs to me that they may be leading me to a dead end where the Careers will get me, but I have to risk it. I could starve in here.

We come on the way out with no warning. Suddenly a gap in the wall gives me a view of green leaves.

"This is the dangerous part." Lommy whispers to me, and I see why.

To get to the woods we'll have to dash across an open space in plain view. There's nothing for it. We need to get into those woods. Lommy goes first, and when he's halfway across I chance it. As he's vanishing among the trees, I hear Hot Pie's heavy footfalls. I reach the cover of the trees safely and find Lommy waiting. We're both ready to run as we watch Hot Pie. He's slow, and already out of breath when he reaches halfway. He's a few metres from the treeline when an arrow buries itself in the ground near his feet.

Hot Pie gives a startled grunt and speeds up. I already have a knife in my hand. The arrow came from the building, but I didn't see which window. When a second arrow barely misses his head, shearing off a lock of hair, I see the direction and throw, catching sight of a pale face and lush brown hair. Margaery Tyrell ducks backwards and my knife only catches her arm. I see a puff of blood and she's gone. Hot Pie staggers past me and the three of us take off at a run, dashing away into the woods.

We stop for a breather several metres in. I feel more relaxed here in the trees. I'm also fitter than the boys; as they catch their breath I go hunting. I've lost one throwing knife to Margaery and four more I've given to the boys, but I still have loads left. I nail a rabbit with one and bring it back. Lommy looks at me with newfound respect.

"Where'd you learn to throw like that?" he asks. "Your trainer couldn't o' taught you that quick."

"I taught myself." I tell him, uncomfortable. It's not a crime to train for the Games but it's what Careers do. The Districts will think less of me, but I can't admit the truth. Maybe Varys was right and they won't kill me, but what of Gendry? If I start down that road it'll be so easy to slip up and get him killed, and maybe Jon and Bran now, too. Better to let people assume I train.

After a while we move on, directly away from the ruins. I lead the way, aware that either of them could put a knife in my back. I don't think they will, and I'm right. We go along quietly, not speaking but companionable. It's nothing like the easy silence I've shared with Gendry, but it's ok. It's something. Still, being in the woods, being a hunter, feels strange and wrong without him.

We come upon the barrier very suddenly. It snakes its way through the trees, a rippling malformation in the air. It is, of course, tinged red.

"End of the line?" wonders Lommy. "Or just a mirage to drive us back to the Careers?"

"Let's see." Hot Pie picks up a small rock and tosses it at the barrier.

It sails harmlessly through, landing a few feet away on the other side. It makes no sound, doesn't even ripple the barrier.

"A mirage, then?" asks Lommy.

"I don't know." I reply doubtfully. My hunter instincts are screaming at me that it's a trick, that there's danger here. "Maybe it's just designed to hurt us."

"Only one way to know." Hot Pie declares, and before we can stop him he plunges his fingers through the barrier.

There's a horrible smell of burning flesh and Hot Pie howls like an animal as he yanks his hand back. Lommy and I pounce on him and pin him to the ground before he can stagger into the barrier. Lommy clamps his hands over Hot Pie's mouth to stifle the screaming that will bring other tributes down on us any minute. I get a glimpse of his fingers. The flesh is blistering and bubbling, some of the skin charred black, cracked and oozing blood. It must be agony.

A memory flashes to mind. "Hold him!" I order Lommy, and I dart away, searching.

I'm looking for a particular plant. A year or so ago, Gendry and I got trapped out in the woods by patrols. We had to light a fire that night and I burned my hand badly - not quite this badly, but badly. Gendry found a plant with thick, fleshy leaves and the juice of it almost erased the pain. I don't know how he knew to use it - guess they used it in King's Landing before the eviction - but he said we were lucky to find it so far north. I hope I can find it here. I spot a plant at the base of a tree and recognise the leaves. This is it! I pull a leaf and hurry back to the boys.

Lommy's kneeling _on_ Hot Pie now, struggling to hold his writhing form alone. I pin Hot Pie's arm beneath my knee and squeeze the leaf over his burned hand. Juice runs across his ruined fingers, followed by thick, clear gel. His muffled wails quiet quickly. I don't know if it will help the healing, but it's already eased the pain. Lommy releases him and sits back with a sigh of relief.

"How did you know to use that?" he asks. Does he have to keep asking why?!

"I read it in a book." I lie.

"You can read?" Hot Pie asks, startled, as he sits up.

"My father's the lord of Winterfell. Of course I can read." I tear a bit of fabric from the base of my tunic and squeeze the gel onto it, then carefully bandage Hot Pie's fingers, keeping each separate. The gel is cooling, so the body should heal itself faster. I think.

We strike out again, keeping the barrier to our right. It curves, driving us left, and the ruins stay the same distance away. Soon it's obvious that the barrier forms a circle. I'd guessed as much, but now I've confirmed it. By unspoken agreement we move back into the woods. None of us wants to be caught between the Careers and the barrier. I hunt as we go, catching a squirrel. When night begins to fall I look at the branches.

"We should camp up there." I suggest.

"No way, I can't climb no tree!" Hot Pie argues. Lommy appears to agree.

I sigh. "Fine. Find a hollow one we can hide in, then."

It doesn't take long. We find a huge hollow tree and I leave them cooking the rabbit and squirrel while I climb the tree in search of birds' eggs. As I'm taking a few from the first nest I find, the death toll plays in the sky. Two tonight, Sarina of Tarth, from the Stormlands, and Myrcella Lannister, from Casterly Rock. It feels strange to know I've outlasted a Career, though I knew she was never a contender. I climb back down and join my allies under the tree, handing each an egg. I place mine at the edge of the fire to cook and they follow suit.

"Who's gone now?" Lommy asks as he hands me a piece of meat.

"Sarina, from your District. Did you know her?"

"No. She grew up in Tarth. I came from the Refuge outside Storm's End - after they kicked us out of King's Landing."

So they have a Refuge too. I wonder if every District does. "I think she took Myrcella Lannister down with her."

The night and the next day pass quietly. I hunt, and we return to our hollow. The sky shows us more casualties at dusk. Grenn and Pypar are gone. I guess the Careers got them. Looks like they went down fighting, though. The Ironborn boy appears in between them. Another three.

"How many are left?" asks Lommy.

I count silently as I chew my food, then repeat out loud. "Us three. Theon Greyjoy, the boy from Winterfell. Frey, and Meera Reed. Joffrey. The Ironborn girl. Margaery Tyrell. And little Rue, from Starfall. Ten."

"I'd forgot about Rue." Lommy muses. "She's doing well."

"Guess she's fast, like she said." I shrug. "They can't catch her."

"What's Theon Greyjoy like?" Lommy wonders.

"He's an ass. He acts like a Career, and I think he's a bit sadistic."

"Do you think the Careers are hunting the woods yet?" asks Hot Pie nervously.

"I don't know. Margaery was in the ruins. If they know that they might still be hunting her." I notice Lommy toying with one of the knives I gave him. He throws it at the trunk, but the hilt strikes the wood, and his aim's poor. He tries again, throwing it like a spear, and it goes more down than forwards. "Here, like this."

I show him how to hold it, by the blade rather than by the hilt, and the right flick of the wrist. Soon he and Hot Pie are both throwing better.

"Thanks, Arya." Lommy smiles at me and I catch myself smiling back.

We both look away then, sad. Even if our alliance helps us outlast the Careers, the three of us will have to fight it out. Better not to be friends. In another world, we might have been, but here, now, it's a bad idea.

"At this rate it'll be a battle between us and a few Careers at the end." Hot Pie muses. His voice drops. "Or just us."

"A few kids fighting isn't a battle!" Lommy retorts.

"I guess." Hot Pie agrees reluctantly. "It would be if we had armour, but they won't give us that."

I shake my head at him, refusing to long for what I can't have. "It still wouldn't be a battle."

"Yes, it would!"

"Who told you that?"

"A knight."

"What were you doing talking to a knight?" demands Lommy.

"I was selling pies at a Reaping a few years ago, before I was in the bowl. He bought a pie. We talked."

"How d'you know he was a knight?" I wonder.

"He had armour on." Hot Pie says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"You don't have to be a knight to buy armour. Any idiot with money can buy armour."

"How d'you know?!" Hot Pie demands.

" 'Cause my friend's sold armour, in King's Landing before the eviction. Anyway, soldiers wear armour too. That's probably what he was." An earlier curiosity occurs to me. "Why are you called Hot Pie?"

"My mother died when I was little, so I kept baking pies, like she did. I'd be walking Fleabottom selling them, yelling 'Hot pies! Hot pies!'. When they sent me to Riverrun no-one could remember my name, so that's what they called me. I don't remember it now, neither."

I feel sad for him that he doesn't remember his name. "Were your pies any good?"

"The best in Fleabottom." he boasts. "That's what I do in Riverrun now. Mine are better than anyone's. The thing about pies is-"

"Gods be good, you've set him off again!" Lommy rolls his eyes.

Once Hot Pie starts, it's almost impossible to get him to shut up. Eventually Lommy and I tackle him, and Lommy pins him while I squirt him in the face with water from my waterskin. Soon we're all laughing, and we fall asleep sprawled around our little hollow like family, my head on Lommy's stomach and Hot Pie's head on my legs.

When we wake in the morning it's to the sound of snuffling a few trees away. We don't know what animals are in these woods, so we decide to move on. As we go I catch a glimpse of silver fur and wonder if it's a wolf. I think of Nymeria and miss her desperately. I don't know how a truly wild wolf would react to me. Best to move.

It's quiet until midday. We walk the woods wary but unhindered. As the sun passes its highest point we find ourselves in a clearing with nothing but a couple of rocks. All seems quiet, still.

The spear comes out of nowhere, plunging through Hot Pie's back without so much as a warning whistle. He falls silently, dead before he hits the ground. Lommy and I both cry out and turn, drawing our weapons. The four remaining Careers stride out of the trees, led by Joffrey. All are grinning except Meera, who shows no expression. Lommy throws a knife but his aim is still poor and it goes wide, a good half-foot from Asha Greyjoy's right ear. She doesn't even flinch. He throws the second knife and it would hit Joffrey, only he deflects it lazily with his sword. I take my chance to throw while he's distracted, but then Frey comes out of nowhere right as I throw, and when he punches me my aim goes wide. Then they're on us.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Lommy scrabble for Hot Pie's knives. I roll aside from Frey's second blow, my sword in my hand and blood in my mouth. I slash and cut his leg up high. Blood gushes out, faster than it should, and he staggers back, clutching the wound. I move for the kill and then Meera's boot catches my back. I fall, winded, as she kicks me again. Asha has already disarmed Lommy. A boot in my side throws me onto my back and it's not Meera, it's Joffrey. My fingers tighten on my sword, but his foot comes down hard on my wrist and my hand goes numb.

As Joffrey takes my sword I see the whole scene: Hot Pie dead, the Frey boy on the ground while Meera tries to stop the bleeding, Asha raising her axe over Lommy, who's frozen in fear. Frey's done for, bleeding out, but Lommy and I are done for too.

Joffrey slashes out with my sword and cuts my friend's throat before Asha can strike. I cry out for the second time as Lommy falls, blood pooling around him, his body twitching.

Joffrey turns back to me with a sadistic smile on his face, ignoring Asha's cheated glare. "This is a fine little blade." Behind him, Lommy falls still. Joffrey turns his eyes to the bloodied blade. "Maybe I'll pick my teeth with it."

He shouldn't have looked away from me. I pull a knife and throw, glad my cloak fell over them. Joffrey recoils and I roll and run, dashing for the trees. There's nothing I can do for my allies now, but I can try to survive. I hear the whistle of wood and metal and duck left as Asha's axe buries itself in a tree to my right. I can hear Joffrey cursing, crashing through the undergrowth after me. I think Asha's behind him. I keep running until I reach a pile of rubble left from some ancient attack on this place. I skid around to the other side, find a small hole and wriggle through, finding it hollow inside. The two Careers plunge on past.

I hold myself very still until I hear them pass again, back the other way, cursing. Only when their voices have faded away do I let myself breathe, let my body begin to shake. Ignoring the blood from my nose and mouth I wrap myself into a ball and sob.

I'm not safe from the Red Woman's viewers here. In the last five years, only Gendry and Jon have ever seen me cry. Now all of Westeros will. But I don't care.

I crossed the line, that one truly important boundary. I let my allies become my friends. Now they're gone, and I feel the loss more keenly than I should. We were never all going to survive. I should never have forgotten that, but I did, and now I'm paying for it.

My tears ease after an hour or so. By the time the sun begins to set I've stopped shaking and I'm able to clean the blood from my face, drink some water and eat some food. I take stock. Hot Pie was carrying most of the food; I'll have to hunt again tomorrow. I'll need more water soon but there are streams everywhere. I still have a good few knives, including my skinning one. If I could catch him and tie him up I would love to skin Joffrey alive. When the sky lights up I move so I can see through a small gap. Hot Pie appears first, then Lommy. I say a silent farewell to both. Frey is third and last. He must've bled out after I fled. The sky darkens again, and I settle in. I fall asleep with conviction in my heart.

I couldn't save my friends, but I can avenge them.


	9. Chapter 8

_**Part 8: Harrenhal – The Wolf of Winterfell**_ _(Arya)_

I sleep late, waking around midday. I don't dare stay here; it's been too long already. The Careers will still be hunting me. They'll find this place sooner or later. Besides, I need to hunt.

As I creep out of the pile of rubble and look around I see Margaery on the edge of the ruins. She can't see me here. The Highgarden girl doesn't look good. She's pale, her face drawn, her hair limp with sweat. When she turns I see that her left arm is swollen and red. The cut I gave her must be infected. That set in fast. She looks like she's considering going into the woods, maybe looking for medicinal herbs. I could offer her an alliance, offer to find herbs for her in exchange for someone to watch my back, but I still think she'd be more likely to put a knife in it. She doesn't see me as I creep away.

The day passes quietly, or rather, what's left of it does. I find some more food and water, and when dusk begins to fall I climb a tree and settle on a large branch, nestled against the trunk. I doubt I'll fall; in Winterfell I often climb up in search of nests to rob. I'm a better climber than Gendry - though not so good as Bran - and I'm lighter, better able to get up to the thin, high branches. There's no-one in the sky tonight.

Morning dawns with rain. I huddle in my tree, barely sheltered. By the time it eases I'm damp, miserable and edgy. It makes me desperately miss my warm bed and my family. I know I'm lucky to be alive still, and I wonder how long my luck will last. The thought that it can't hold out much longer makes me tense. As I climb down from my tree I wonder if I'll survive today.

The woods seem quiet, but I take no chances. It's early afternoon when I hear the sound of sobbing.

I have a rabbit and a quail strapped to my belt, I should take them and go and count my blessings. But I can't. The cries sound so helpless, so young. I've given the last three years of my life to helping people. I can't ignore the sound of someone in trouble, even here, not a second time. I don't know what I plan to do, but I creep towards the sound. I come to a clearing, similar to the one where my allies fell.

The first thing I see is Theon Greyjoy drawing a sword. His back's to me, and beyond him I see little Rue Forel huddled against a tree. Her leg is bleeding and she's curled into a ball, crying. To her credit, she doesn't plead. She sobs and she waits, and no more. I edge slowly around to see Theon's face. He has cuts and bruises and a gash halfway across his forehead. I guess the Careers didn't let him join them. He's lucky he got away. He raises the sword and then he hesitates.

I know he's doomed before he does. That one moment of hesitation is the hint of dissention that Aerys needs. It doesn't matter that Theon's gaze clears and he makes the decision to kill Rue. He's shown that brief moment of rebellion.

As much as I hate him, he's from my District. The cry of warning escapes from me almost unconsciously. "Theon!"

He half turns, but his face never gets right around to me. There's a shimmer of heat, a flash of flame and he's gone, just a pile of ash on the ground. I stare in shock, even though I've seen this before. That's all it takes. One second of fire and that's that.

I glance around, see no-one but Rue still crying and slowly move into the open. The ash that was once Theon Greyjoy stirs in the breeze. Rue looks at me with huge, tear-filled eyes and then goes back to crying. I'm in no danger from her. I sense something, though, someone. I turn to see Asha in the trees, axe in hand, poised to throw. I have no time to go for a knife. I'm a goner.

Asha's eyes flick to what's left of Theon and back, and she lowers her axe and points accusingly at me. "Just this once, Wolf Girl. For Theon. For my brother. Then we're even. Next time I see you, I'll kill you. You understand?"

I nod shakily. I do understand. He was her brother. She hadn't seen him in years, but he was still her brother, and I tried to warn him. She turns and vanishes. She lets me live. There are three reasons she gets away with this. One, she's a Career. Two, she had a reason other than pity - even Aerys understands family ties. Three, two in a row would bore the audience.

I'm alive, and shaking all over as I look at Theon again. Trying to warn him was an automatic courtesy to a District partner. Honour tells me I shouldn't take from him, but this is no place for honour. His sword fell beside the pile of ash. I take it and look at Rue.

"You should kill me quickly." she says hoarsely. "Or they'll kill you too."

"Not if we're allies." I find myself saying. "That's allowed."

She watches me suspiciously. "You want me for an ally? Why?"

Good question. After what happened to Hot Pie and Lommy, what's wrong with me? But I say "'Cause you're still alive. You're smart. And it's pretty much just us and the Careers. I can't beat them alone."

She regards me for a moment, then stands up shakily, tentatively putting weight on her bleeding leg. She's even smaller than me. "You had allies before."

"How do you know?"

"I was watching you. I saw. And I'm sorry."

"The Careers will pay for it." I tell her. "Come on, let's go."

After I've cooked dinner, we find a tree for the night and curl up on a branch. She climbs almost as well as Bran. It's so much warmer with her tucked against me. Theon appears in the sky and then he's gone forever. He's the only one. Margaery must still be hanging on. Rue and I eat in silence, then,

"I'm not a fighter." she admits. "I'm alive 'cause I hid."

"That's ok. If you don't kill me in my sleep, I'll give you a knife and show you how to use it."

She looks scared. "I don't even know where to start!"

"It's easy. Stick 'em with the pointy end!"

She laughs.

Morning comes, and the red barrier is visible just beyond the trees. The arena's shrinking. They're trying to drive us all together, wrap this up. Ok, then.

"Today, we hunt Careers." I tell Rue as we return to the ground. She looks terrified. "It's ok. I was born to hunt. My sigil's the direwolf, see?"

"It's really beautiful." she whispers, her eyes on the pin. "Who gave it to you?"

"A friend." I reply firmly, my tone allowing for no questions. I cannot think of home now, only the coming fight.

In truth, we stand no chance. But I'll let no-one say I didn't try. If I can just take Joffrey down, I'll be happy. I quickly teach Rue to use a knife, she teaches me a short, four-note whistle and then we separate, each searching for the Careers.

I follow the barrier, but it isn't long before I hear the whistle drifting through the woods. I guess they weren't hard to find. I follow the sound and find Rue hiding behind a bush, watching the Careers. They're bragging about how close they are to winning, loudly. There are only three left, no two from the same District. As always, Meera is quieter than Asha and Joffrey. The two girls keep glaring at each other, but at Joffrey more. When everyone else is gone they'll turn on him, then fight it out. Or they would, if we gave them a chance.

I don't have a shot at Joffrey, so I kill Asha first, giving her a quick death in thanks for sparing me. My knife in the back of her neck and she's gone. The other two wheel, looking for us and we have to duck away as Meera throws a trident. We roll out into view as soon as she's unarmed and Rue darts away, drawing Joffrey's gaze, taunting him. I engage Meera, quickly realising my mistake with her trident when she reels it back to herself on a length of rope.

We circle each other, and I can see in her eyes that she knows our fathers' history together, too. Neither of us speaks - clearly, she isn't the type to taunt. She jabs the trident at me and I dodge and slash at her with a knife. As she slips aside from my strike I throw a knife with my left hand, taking her by surprise. The blade buries itself in her leg, slowing her. I manage to slip around behind her, dodging her trident again, and plunge another knife into her heart from the back. It's the quickest, most merciful death I can give her. She falls, and I briefly wonder if we could have been friends in another time and place. The truth is, I need to stop wondering about times and places that will never be.

I turn just in time to dodge a blow from Joffrey. Rue has vanished, and all his focus is on me. I draw Theon's sword and we slash and parry, alone in a deadly dance. We're matched, but he has the slight edge in strength, while I have a small advantage in speed. I can't beat him alone, and his psychotic anger gives him something I don't have. He drives me back - with _my_ blade - and my back hits a tree. I'm cornered, barely fending off his blows. My wrists ache. Then Rue comes out of the bushes while Joffrey isn't looking and lunges at his leg. She sticks him with the pointy end.

Joffrey falls with a cry and nearly loses my sword. Rue slashes at his fingers and he lets go. I snatch the sword back, throwing Theon's to Rue. She catches it slightly clumsily. I keep my gaze on Joffrey as I taunt him.

"This is a fine little blade." He cringes away from me. "Maybe I'll pick my teeth with it."

For the sake of his family at home I kill him quickly, putting my blade straight through his heart.

I turn to Rue. "Just us and Tyrell. She's a sly one, you'd better keep that sword."

She doesn't look happy but she puts the sword through her belt carefully. I can't see the ruins or the sun from here, so we strike out in a random direction. By nightfall we haven't seen Margaery, so we make what will probably be our last camp in a tall tree. The Careers appear in the sky and are gone.

The next day we carry on the way we were going. In truth, I don't want to find Margaery. I know she'll be weak, and we'll kill her easily, and then I'll have to fight Rue. We both know I'll win, and though I long for home, killing her isn't something I can face.

It's about two hours after sunrise when there's a flash. We look up and Margaery's picture appears in the sky. The infection must have got her, and rather than wait another few hours to let us know, they've made sure we know now. We meet each other's gaze for a moment, then turn and keep going. I can't face this, not yet. If Rue wants to put a knife in my back, so be it, but I know she won't.

Finally, we come to the barrier on the south-east side. There are guards beyond, waiting to take the victor back to King's Landing, and with them is _her_ , the Red Woman, Melisandre of Asshai. I can see one of her viewers plain as day beside her, projecting our image out to all of Westeros. So much power, and she uses it for this. I hate her more than I can say, even to myself.

Slowly, I turn to Rue. No hesitation will matter now. We're the last two, the drama is too intense to ruin. Who will kill who? Will we try to both survive?

"Finish it, Wolf of Winterfell." Rue tells me calmly.

"At least fight back!" I plead.

She draws her sword, but I can see that she won't use it. Suddenly I remember Tyrion Lannister, his words: _'Make sure they remember you… I never knew how to use it. Maybe you will.'_. I see again Hot Pie's rock sailing through the barrier. And I understand what Tyrion meant, what I can give the Districts. _'A symbol…'_ Yes, I can be a symbol. I've been saving a few lives for years. Now, with a single blow and my own life, I can save thousands, or at least give them a chance to save themselves.

I draw a knife.

"I'm sorry." I tell Rue. Not because I'll kill her, as she thinks, but because I'm sacrificing her life too. There'll be no escape from this.

Rue closes her eyes. As I raise the knife, I do the same. I think of home. I see Winterfell, the Refuge and the great keep. I see the wolves playing, hear Nymeria's yip. I see my parents' smiling faces, Sansa's red hair, Robb's grin. I hear Rickon laugh, see Bran climbing, feel Jon muss my hair. My family. My mind drifts out to the Wolfswood, to Gendry, my hunting partner, my confidant, my dearest friend. I hope Jon and Bran hunt with him now. I owe him so much. Without him, I never would have made it so far or had the strength to do what I have to now. I wish I could tell him again, make sure he knew.

All this passes in a second. I open my eyes, draw back my hand to throw… and spin, throwing the knife at Melisandre. She has no time to react. The dagger sails through the barrier and takes the Red Woman in the heart. She stumbles and the viewer and the barrier flicker. The guards are stunned, immobile.

I look straight down the viewer that will vanish when the Red Woman dies and I'm praying that Robb or Jon or Gendry will understand, will see and take the chance I'm giving them. Even if just Winterfell gets free, it will be a chance. Melisandre falls. The barrier vanishes and the viewer falters again. In the last instant that I have left I think of Gendry and pour all my gratitude into my eyes. I touch the direwolf pin he gave me. This last look and a chance of freedom: that's the only thanks I can give him now for the last three years.

The viewer disappears. Rue starts to run for the nearest way out but there are guards there, and they're starting to regain their senses. If there's any hope, it lies in the opposite direction. I grab her hand and we run into the woods as arrows fly behind us, seeking our flesh.


	10. Chapter 9

_**Part 9: Winterfell – The Direwolf Rebellion**_ _(Gendry)_

As the red viewer vanishes, taking with it the last glimpse of Arya, a sense of shock reels through the District. The dome over Winterfell disappears. The Red Woman is gone, and with her, her power.

' _Arry!'_ She can't really be gone. She can't, she was my best friend. I know they'll have killed her. She was about to win…

I hear Rickon asking Lady Stark why. Why Arya didn't finish the Games. I hear Sansa whisper "Why did she throw her life away?"

And suddenly I understand. The thought of that look on her face tells me, makes me see the chance she's given us. The Red Woman's power is gone. A few outnumbered guards are all that stand between us and… freedom. There's anger enough here in Winterfell, has been since Greyjoy's death. He was killed for hesitating to kill a child. This District is at boiling point.

Arya, with her strength and her courage, was the spark to light the fires of rebellion. Now all it needs is someone to stoke the flames.

Robb is beside me, still staring at the spot where his sister vanished. There isn't time to explain; the guards will snap out of their trances soon and corral us back to our homes. It has to be now, and it has to be quick.

I turn my head and, so he'll understand, I murmur, "For Arya."

He meets my gaze for a second, frowning, confused, and then I tackle the nearest soldier. The man has armour on but no helmet; it's easy to grab a piece of wood, pin him to the ground and knock him out. As I get up the soldiers begin to stir, startled, and then Robb and Jon catch on. They attack the first two who go for me and then the whole District's in chaos. Everyone's fighting. I steal a sword from the soldier I knocked out and engage another. I've never trained in sword fighting, but there's something instinctive about it.

From the corner of my eye I see Lord and Lady Stark bundle Sansa, Rickon and Bran over to the wall and join the fight. Lady Stark never trained in fighting either, and she's a product of the old world where ladies were gentle and protected, but she's fierce. She might have been a Tully by birth, but she's a she-wolf now. She steals a sword from a fallen soldier and throws herself into the fray. Rickon starts throwing stones at soldiers, and soon even _Sansa_ is doing the same – Sansa, who is the opposite of Arya, probably the most gentle, ladylike person I have ever met.

The soldiers are outnumbered and faced with desperate people, but they have armour and we don't. The fight begins to turn. The yard of Winterfell's keep is littered with bodies, soldiers and northmen alike. The soldiers are no longer in shock. We might lose this yet.

Bran suddenly breaks away from Sansa and runs for the keep. Can't blame the kid for hiding. He's only eleven, and Rickon was always the fiercer of the two. Suddenly, though, Bran's running out again. What is he doing? In a brief respite from the fight, I see six huge shapes emerge from the darkness of the great keep. Bran's released the direwolves.

They bound into battle and rip into the soldiers. Armour is no protection against those great jaws, and the wolves move faster than swords. Ghost is a mass of white bearing down on every guard in his path until he can get to Jon's side. Grey Wind moves faster than the eye can see. Lady manages to be graceful even as she tears out throats. Summer takes to Bran's side, twisting and snapping, and Shaggydog is like a great black demon as he fights. I fell a soldier and hear a snarl behind me, followed by a scream. I turn to see a soldier who was about to take my head off fall to Nymeria's jaws. She regards me with bright golden eyes, and stays by my side for the rest of the fight.

Thanks to the wolves it's nearly over now. I spot a soldier making for the gate. I grab a bow and scramble onto the makeshift stage. The man's lost his helmet and gorget. I'm not a great shot and my arrow only grazes his ear, but it's enough to draw Grey Wind's attention. He and Shaggydog finish the soldier off together. No-one can be allowed to carry word back to King's Landing. The longer it takes Aerys to realise what's happened, the stronger we'll be when he sends his soldiers for us.

The fight's over now. All the soldiers are dead. The people of Winterfell turn from that last dead guard to me and I realise I'm still standing on the stage. They're waiting for me to say something. Damn it, I didn't start this, not really. What in seven hells am I supposed to say?

As Nymeria pounces up beside me I catch Lord Stark's eye. He's the one who makes the speeches. To my relief, he takes the stage beside me. I try to slip away, and he catches my shoulder, keeping me beside him. Nymeria sits proudly at my side.

"This is only a small victory." Lord Stark begins. "But if all the Districts take the same chance we did, then it will be first of many. Westeros will soon be free." A cheer goes up. "This day does not just belong to us. It belongs to Arya Stark, my daughter."

I feel my eyes prickle at her name. I force back the tears. There'll be time to grieve properly later, when I'm alone in my hut in the Refuge.

Lord Stark must notice somehow, because he squeezes my shoulder sympathetically before he continues. "She has saved lives here for years. Many of you wouldn't be alive without her and Gendry. We could never admit it aloud before, but we all know it to be true."

"Hear, hear!" someone yells.

"Now she's given us all a chance for freedom and life. She sacrificed herself to give us this chance. We owe her everything. And she will never be forgotten."

No, she won't. I'll make sure of that.

A voice rings out and a sword lifts into the air. "Arya Stark!"

Another voice adds, "The Wolf of Winterfell!"

Suddenly a thousand voices are raised in salute and farewell. A thicket of swords and spears has sprung into the air. Nymeria lifts her muzzle and howls, and the other five wolves take up the call. I lift my own sword, but my voice breaks and comes out as a whisper when I speak her name. I lift my face to the sky, where drifts of snow are falling.

I learned to read Arry's face years ago, as hunters have to so they can communicate silently. In that last moment I read her thanks. Did she know how grateful I am to her? I owe her everything. Without her, I'd still be a lonely boy struggling to catch enough food for myself, never mind feed the rest of the District. I wish I could tell her, make sure she knew.

The ache of losing her is really starting to set in now. Despite what she said, I always knew she had a chance to win. I hadn't let myself believe she wouldn't come home. Now the bitter truth is like a knife. She was my best friend. My mother died before I came to Winterfell and I never knew my father. Arry was all I had. It's so hard to accept that she's gone, that I'll never see her again. It's harder still to hold back the tears.

The only thanks I can give her now is to remember her, and to finish what she started: the Direwolf Rebellion.


	11. Epilogue

_**Epilogue: Winterfell**_ _(Gendry)_

It's dark when I wake. I'm still not used to having proper curtains in this hut. Lady Stark had them made for me. Since I refused to move into the great keep, she insisted on making this place more inhabitable. I appreciated the offer of moving in, but one night let me know I'd never sleep easily there. In or out of the keep, though, I'm still pretty much an honourary Stark these days.

We've been free for four years now. The other Districts rebelled, just as we did, and so did King's Landing. To be more specific, the Targaryens rebelled. The king's children, Rhaegar and Daenerys, overthrew their father. Under their rule there was no retribution for the Direwolf Rebellion. They made peace with the Districts. Rhaegar even considered setting us all free of their rule, but we chose to stay with them. Every District agreed that these two are rulers we can gladly follow. Besides, it's better to keep them on side now. The rebellion and the Games are long since ended, but there are new dangers. The White Walkers of ancient myths came down across the wall while there was no-one guarding it.

We didn't even know until two months after the rebellion. Riders were sent to the Dreadfort, to suggest that the Boltons rejoin the reformed Seven Kingdoms. A single rider returned, with tales of blue-eyed corpses walking the halls. A year and a half later, the Targaryens flew north on the dragons they hatched during their own rebellion. There are three, ridden by King Rhaegar, Princess Daenerys and Princess Rhaenys. They've gone to the Wall to fight, and warriors from every kingdom have gone with them. Lord Stark and Jon have gone. Robb stayed to run the district. I stayed because even now, everyone else is too scared to go into the woods. I still have to hunt for them. I can't say I mind.

I sit up and see sunlight creeping past the edges of the curtains. Nymeria stirs and jumps to the ground to stretch. Without her warmth curled around me I'm immediately cold, so I dress quickly. I need to hunt today anyway.

I scratch at my beard irritably as I go to open the curtains. I've been growing it longer recently, mainly to annoy Sansa. She says it doesn't suit me, so it stays. Although, Lady Stark has passed comment on it, too, and I'm tempted to shave it off for her sake. I have a great deal of respect for Lady Stark. She's been so kind to me since the rebellion. All the Starks have treated me as one of their own.

When I open the door, I see the sun high in the sky. I've slept later than I should, but I can safely head into the woods whenever I want now. Even after four years, I'm still getting used to that. I don't have to be with Mikken until the evening, today.

It's good to see the Refuge alive and busy. It's not even called the Refuge anymore. It's the Winter Town, like it once was in the years before the war. These days people farm and smith and trade in freedom. It's got to a stage now where most people prefer to barter for the meat I bring home. They're slowly regaining the old pride of the northerners, even those who weren't northerners to begin with. Some of the refugees from King's Landing went home after Aerys fell. I couldn't. This is my home now.

As I stretch, Nymeria steps out beside me, full of pride and grace. She's been with me for all of the last four years, ever since the last Red Games. She came to my hut in the middle of the night. I heard a scrabbling and whining outside and found her at the door. When I opened it, she trotted in and refused to leave. She stands taller than my shoulder now. Most people think of her as my direwolf, but to me she'll always be Arya's.

She gives a small yip and I look around to see Robb approaching with Grey Wind at his heels. Lordship suits Robb, even if it is temporary. There will come a day when it will be permanent. We all know we'll still be in good hands when that day comes. Now, though, he looks formal and apologetic. That's never a good sign.

"Sansa requests your presence at lunch." he tells me formally, and then he adds in a sympathetic voice, "She's found another one."

Gods be good! Sansa got married two years ago, and suddenly decided that everyone else needed to be married too. She's been matchmaking her brothers ever since - and since I'm an honourary Stark, that apparently includes me. Jon escaped from her by going north. A few months ago, Robb fell in love with and married a girl she set him up with. Rickon and Bran are both still too young, by Westeros' newest laws. That leaves me in the firing line. That's why I've grown and kept the beard. It's at times like this that I almost wish highborns still ignored lowborn bastards like me.

"How can she have found another one?" I grumble. "Either they all look the same, or she's set me up with the same ones more than once!"

Robb shrugs. I'm glaring so hard at him that he holds up his hands in a peace gesture. "Hey, don't blame me. I'm just the messenger."

"No, you're just the idiot who went and fell in love with one of the ones she set you up with!" He gives me a half-guilty grimace. "How does she even have time for this? She's got an eight-month-old baby!"

"Mother loves being a grandmother." Robb points out. "She's got Lyanna."

"Of course she has." I mutter, but I can't muster any real frustration, not for Lady Stark. I make a decision and duck back inside to grab my bow. "Right, tell Sansa I'm hunting."

"I am not lying to my sister, Gendry!" Robb tells me, but he's laughing.

I wave the bow at him as I take off. "Not a lie!"

I make for the woods at a slow run, Nymeria bounding along and easily passing me. Summer flashes past me as well and he and Nymeria jump around each other as they head for the trees. Bran falls into step beside me. He's tall now, for fifteen. He's hunted with me every day since the last Games.

"Sansa's gonna kill you." he tells me.

"I am not afraid of your sister." I know damn well I'm lying.

So does he. "Then why are you going to hide in the woods?"

I shoot him a sour glance and elbow him lightly in the side - neither of us breaks stride. "Same reason you will be soon. A few months and you'll be sixteen. Then it'll be your turn. I hear she's already got her eye on Beth Cassel."

Bran pulls a horrified face, punches me in the arm and speeds up, quickly disappearing into the trees. I slow to a jog and then to a walk as I reach the Wolfswood. Bran'll be up a tree already, searching for birds' eggs. He's a good hunter and a good friend, and I'm starting to love the kid like a brother. But he's not Arya.

Amongst the trees the ache always comes back. It's been four years, yet her memory won't leave me alone. I could swear her ghost is with me every time I step into these woods. But the truth is, I wouldn't change that. I don't want to forget her. I don't want to let her go.

Sansa thinks I need a wife to help me get over the loss. Maybe she's right, but if it's true I'll decide in my own time, in my own way. There was nothing romantic between me and Arry, but she was part of me, part of who I was, part of who I still am. I'm not ready to move on.

The woods are quiet under a thick layer of snow. As I retrieve a dead rabbit from one of the traps I set yesterday, a haunting whistle echoes through the woods. It's the signal Arya and Rue used in the Games. Bran and I took to using it as a warning out here. For the most part, these woods are safe, but there are rovers about. I straighten up and draw my bow. I nock an arrow but don't draw, not yet.

Nymeria and Summer bound out of the trees. Bran'll still be up a tree, hopefully keeping an eye on whatever he's seen. The wolves stand on either side of me. It's hard to feel fear of whatever's coming with a direwolf taller than your shoulder on each side of you. The only time we were attacked by rovers out here, the wolves made short work of them.

There's a faint rustle and then she comes out of the trees almost silently. She's a young woman, a girl really, seventeen at the most. Her face looks so familiar that my heart almost breaks, because she can't be the girl she looks like. And yet… her brown hair is right, her grey eyes are right. She holds a sword in her left hand. She's wearing an old shadowskin cloak over torn and patched clothes, and looking at me like she should know me. Pinned to the tunic is a golden pin… a golden direwolf pin…

Nymeria gives one of her welcoming yips and bounds forward. She prances around the girl, licking her face happily. By the time she stops jumping and sits down to look at me triumphantly, I've dropped my bow and my unloosed arrow and the girl's dropped her sword. We stare at each other silently for a long moment, until finally I'm nearly sure my eyes aren't deceiving me.

"Arry…" I whisper, barely a sound escaping my lips.

"Gendry." Her voice is more certain than mine.

Nymeria's radiating a sense of smugness, almost as if to say to me _'I knew she was alive.'_ and to Arya _'See, I kept him alive.'_. Neither of us actually looks at her. It's such a natural thing to go to each other that I don't realise either of us has moved until we're locked in each other's arms. That's when I know with absolute certainty that this is real, when I can feel her in my arms. She's shaking, and she's not the only one.

"Arry…" I whisper again. "You came home."

"You knew I would." she reminds me. "Before the Games, before I knew myself what I could do… you knew I could win."

"Yes. But… at the end… I thought you were gone forever… I thought I'd lost you." Tears well in my eyes. My tears for her have always been secret, shed in the darkness. My tears of relief fall onto her hair and I don't bother to try to stop them.

"We barely got away. One of the arrows got me in the leg, and I couldn't move for ages. Rue and I had to hide. She kept me alive. We stayed hidden for nearly a year, trying to stay away from the Targaryen soldiers, until we learned that the war was over. Then she went home, south to Starfall, and I came north. But I kept getting lost, and there are rovers everywhere and… Gods, I've been travelling for so _long_. I thought I'd never get home."

"You're home now." I reassure her. "You're safe."

"Yes. It was worth it. Everyone's free now."

"Thanks to you. You gave us a chance."

"You took it. I knew you'd look after them, Gendry. I've missed you." Her voice is soft, shaking. "I've missed everyone so much, but… so many times, I wished you were with me."

"I've missed you, too. Every day." I hug her tighter, vaguely aware of Bran staring in awe from somewhere nearby.

After a long moment Arya lifts her head and looks up at me, her eyes and cheeks shining with tears. Her hair's matted, her face is dirty and her eyes look older but she's barely changed. She frowns thoughtfully and reaches up to tug at my beard.

"You need to shave." she tells me firmly, and then she promptly passes out in my arms.

 _ **Author's Note: Thanks for reading this, I hope you enjoyed it. I wrote this a few years ago and that last line was a reference to something, but I now can't remember what it was. It's probably some really obscure thing that no-one but me's ever heard of, but if anyone recognises it, please could you let me know in the reviews? It's annoying that I can't remember. Thanks. :)**_


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